


Nor the Arrow for its Swiftness

by Jaina_Pridemoore



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Enemies to Reluctant Allies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Sex, Extreme Pining, F/F, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jaina Pridemoore, Mystery, Oh my god they were pactmates, Politics, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Sylvaina shipwreck AU, cw: suicidal thoughts, magic nerd and zombie jock on Sexual Tension Island
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2019-12-18 12:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 47,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18250268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaina_Pridemoore/pseuds/Jaina_Pridemoore
Summary: Marooned on an uncharted island, Jaina's only hope of survival --let alone escape-- is to work with the Warchief of the Horde.But as personalities, loyalties, and traumas collide, reluctant cooperation becomes something else entirely... and even the most bitter of enemies may find they have more in common than not.(The obligatory Sylvaina shipwreck AU.)





	1. Prologue - War of Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> Starting off with a quick & dirty fix-it for War of the Thorns establishing this as a "characters make fairly reasonable decisions" AU.  
> Heads up: this story WILL get into Azeroth's f****ed-up politics as Jaina & Sylv butt heads and work through their differences.  
> My sincere apologies to anyone who's especially fond of Malfurion.  
> Bisexual Force of Nature Jaina Proudmoore makes her appearance in Chapter 2!

 

A dishonorable blow. 

Stormrage fell to his knees, Saurfang’s axe buried deep in his back, through skin and muscle and bone. Already glowing motes of druidic magic swirled around the wound, trying to heal him even as he coughed and gurgled, but between the axe and the dozen arrows-- 

“What are you doing?” The Warchief strained against the roots that had entangled her. One of her pauldrons was missing, her cuirass scored by clawmarks, and her left arm was torn open, baring black strands of muscle, dripping with something that was not blood-- 

_“Finish him!”_ She commanded. 

“I--” Saurfang looked between her and the struggling druid. “I struck a cowardly blow. Honor demands--” 

“Are you _serious?”_ The Warchief’s eyes blazed dangerously red. “You want to do this _**now?** ” _

“Honor demands I spare him!”

Black smoke boiled out of the Sylvanas’ limbs, withering the roots where it touched them. “I don’t _care,_  Saurfang.This campaign will have been for _nothing_ if we do not _demoralize_ the enemy -- and if we cannot do so with the death of their champion, then I will be forced to pursue _alternative_ means.” Those glowing eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a poisonous hiss. “Is that what you want?” 

Saurfang’s heart dropped into his stomach. The tide had turned in their favor, the Night Elves falling back all across Darkshore. Very soon, Sylvanas would be in a position of dangerous power over hundreds of surrendering warriors and innocent non-combatants. 

_“Is it?”_  

Between them, Stormrage spat blood and growled, fur spreading over his skin. The axe moved, his body pushing it out-- 

“Make the _honorable_ choice, High Overlord. _Now,_ before he recovers.” 

 

Ancestors forgive him.

 

Saurfang stepped forward, and closed both hands over the handle of his axe. 

 

*****

 

A scream echoed through Darkshore.

A broken cry of agony, of anguish, of heartbreak. 

Sentinel and Honorbound alike faltered, but the _druids --_ several stopped mid-spell, or shifted back into their elven or trollish forms, expressions shocked, unnerved-- 

A commander turned to their healer, seizing her by her shoulders. “What? What is it?” 

For a moment, she was distant, as if she could not see him. Then she refocused, the blood draining from her face, eyes wide and wet-- 

“Shan’do…” she choked out. “The Archdruid… he’s dead.” 

A hush fell over the surrounding elves. Warriors that should have been reinforcing the lines froze mid-stride to turn and stare. _“Dead?”_ Someone asked. _“Did she say_ ** _dead?”_**

Immediately, the murmurs began, spreading out across the battlefield, mingling with gasps. 

 

A shadow fell over the battlefield.

Huge, ragged wings churned the smoke-filled air as a massive, bone-white plague-bat descended upon them, snarling through its wicked teeth, forcing the front line of defenders back. 

Atop it sat the Banshee Queen, eyes like embers burning a challenge at any who dared meet them. Calmly, she raised one arm aloft -- and there, clutched in the claws of her gauntlet-- 

 

No. 

Spirits, _no--_

The severed head of Malfurion Stormrage stared sightlessly at the defenders.

 

Someone cried out in horror. Then a dozen more, a violent tide of shock and despair tearing through their line more efficiently than any war machine-- 

_“Warriors of the Horde!”_   Proclaimed the Warchief. _“The tide has turned!! Their greatest champion is vanquished!!_ ** _Kalimdor will be ours!”_**

A chorus of battle-cries joined her own, shouted and snarled and rasped and roared--

The Horde surged forward. 

 

*****

 

It took six sentinels to restrain Tyrande. To force her into the waiting boat even as she begged them not to send her away.

When Malfurion died, she had felt it. 

Now she was inconsolable, howling with grief, demanding to be taken to his body. 

Every muscle in Shandris’ body was taught with the effort it took not to go to her, to drop everything and embrace her for as long as she needed.

But she could not. She was the General of the rapidly buckling Sentinel Army, presiding over a military disaster. 

 

It took all her strength to turn away and march back into the command tent. 

Tyrande’s wails could be heard even over the symphony of armor and weapons, receding over the water. Shandris leaned over the map table, screwed her eyes shut, and gave herself a moment to breathe. 

Then she was up, coordinating the fight, listening to reports of collapses and retreats all across the coast, of ancients burning and villages blighted... 

It was futile. 

Darkshore was lost. 

She took a deep breath, and gave the word. “Sound the retreat. Pull everyone back to the tree. We must prepare to weather a siege until reinforcements arrive from the Eastern Kingdoms."

Her officers, to their credit, only stared for a moment before the steely resolve returned to their gazes. Her command was repeated, broken down into its component tasks, and sent all across Darkshore as quickly as wings could carry-- 

_“General! I need to speak to the general!!”_

The sound of metal on metal marked the guards outside crossing their spears. Shandris nodded to the guards within, who pulled open the flaps. 

An injured sentinel staggered in, unarmed, pouring sweat and gasping for air. Her armor was rent and dented and smeared with blood of many colors, her face bruised, the tip of one ear severed and bleeding freely. 

“Report, Sentinel!” 

“The tree-- _we have to evacuate the tree.”_

_Evacuate??_ It was a fortress, their last hope of resisting the Horde’s invasion. “What are you--” 

“The Banshee,” she gasped. “She spared me to-- to deliver a message. She said come sunrise, _anyone left in the tree will burn.”_

 

*

 

Even half a mile from it, the heat was almost unbearable. For not the first time, Saurfang wondered how much Sylvanas could feel. She stood at the edge of the beach, hands still at her sides, watching the tree burn -- and had been for the past several minutes. 

Many of the Night Elves fought harder, after she made her plan known. But by then it was too late. A pile of them burned not far off, adding more noxious smoke to the air. 

And Sylvanas watched it burn. 

What did she see in the flames? 

Victory? Satisfaction? When she had just ignited a war that would consume the world?

Or was it something else? Did at least some part of her mourn the terrible necessity of this? Of slaughtering those who were once her cousins, of striking at their very souls, to eradicate their ability to threaten the Horde?

Sylvanas’ ear twitched. Slowly, casually, she looked over her shoulder. Even with the tree consumed by flame behind her and the rising run in front, her eyes burned bright and bloody. “Tired, Saurfang? Your breathing has become labored.” 

He bit back a growl. Tried not to spit his words with all the frustration he wished to. “I understand why you did it. Why you saw fit to overlook the honor so many of your subjects hold sacred. But I fear for the unity of the Horde if you continue doing so.” 

Those eyes narrowed. “Are you still upset over your little blunder in the forest?” 

This time he could not suppress the growl. 

The faintest of smirks tugged at Sylvanas’ lips. 

“Don’t fret, High Overlord. It will be our little secret.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! Now we can get into the meat of it.  
> Sorry again to the Malf fans, I just found it reallly unbelievable that Sylvanas would just... run off without finishing an enemy that important. So we've got the Nelves demoralized, but not depopulated. 
> 
> NEXT: Jaina is stressed, gay, and a BAMF


	2. Into the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaina is stressed, gay, and a BAMF.

“I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” 

\-- Faramir (J.R.R. Tolkien) 

 

  *****

 

Too many times since Teldrassil burned, Jaina had found herself envious of Forsaken endurance. Today, unfortunately, was no exception.

Even with a conservative shift rotation and all the help she could give, forcing a warship of the _Peacemaker’s_ size to unnatural speeds for six days straight was enough to exhaust even the hardiest Tidesages and most seasoned shamans. They had closed the distance significantly, but it had drained them. Their shifts had shrunk, while their breaks had grown longer. Soon they would be too tired to continue.

And still the _Banshee’s Wail_ evaded them.

It skimmed over the waves a half-mile ahead, mocking the weight of the _Peacemaker’_ s guns with its speed and agility. Not unlike its cursed namesake, she thought darkly. For days now it had kept just out of range of the _Peacemaker_ ’s enchanted cannons, and far out of reach of her two-warship escort.

Jaina could almost hear the Banshee’s sardonic, layered drawl, honeyed just enough to hide the _poison._

She grit her teeth. Dug the claws of her gauntlet into the rail.

The worst part was that the _Banshee’s Wail_ kept just close enough that Jaina only barely needed a spyglass to spot the tireless sailors in the rigging, taunting her with their freedom from fatigue, from hunger…

From doubt.

Even knowing how few of them could truly taste or smell or feel, Jaina couldn’t help but envy that. Not in any serious, longing way -- just bitterly.

She hadn’t slept well in months.

For the doubts were almost worse than the nightmares — the same near-obsessive tendencies that had so aided her studies now seizing upon every mistake, Arthas and Daelin and Thrall and Theramore all burrowing into her mind in a ceaseless guilt-ridden drone... 

She was so damn _tired._

The constant administrative work of the war effort was almost a relief, and at least a distraction. She’d built up a resistance to half of the Kirin Tor’s best sleep potions — to say nothing of the stimulants.

And she knew the other leaders of the Alliance weren’t much better off. Anduin had his Pandaren tea, Genn his bitter coffee, Muradin his smelling salts, and Gelbin that odd white powder… but they were all, day by day, casualty by casualty, wearing thin.

All but the Banshee.

Who for some unknown, undoubtedly sinister reason, had allowed them to intercept her ship while she was aboard.

Jaina knew better than to assume they had outwitted her. It had to be some sort of trap or diversion — Jaina knew _that_ the moment she’d sensed the cold, churning aura that distinguished the Banshee Queen from her minions.

Whatever else the Lich King had done to her spirit, some part of her was still a Ranger. The finest of Rangers. It was _undoubtedly_ a trap.

But they might never have a chance like this again.

The Horde still had footholds in Drustvar and Stormsong and azerite artillery to hold them, Zandalar still had enough ships to disrupt their supply chains and harass their coasts, and the Forsaken only grew in number, torn from their rest and chained into servitude by their empathy for the Banshee.

At least Jaina’s sympathy for her had soured into guilt. She knew how to _manage_ guilt. How to hold it at bay whilst things needed doing.

No. The Alliance had won inspiring victories, but in terms of logistics, of the ruthless arithmetic of supply and pressure, they couldn’t keep this up much longer. With Saurfang missing and Baine in chains, neutralizing the Banshee was their best bet at ending the war.

And after Lordaeron and Zuldazar, Jaina was the Alliance’s chosen executioner.

She would be lying if she claimed not to enjoy the wary respect the other leaders now treated her with. More respect than they ever gave the idealist. The _diplomat._

It was satisfying. In an infuriating sort of way.

So here she was, standing on the forecastle and glaring at that damned ship and involuntarily freezing the sea-spray as it rained on her. Leading a high-seas chase against a villainous enemy, out for blood and vengeance, just like the buccaneer ancestors of her father’s bedtime stories.

If only the Banshee would turn and fucking _fight._

Jaina had tried everything — she couldn’t levitate the _Peacemaker_ fast enough to give chase, conjuring a miniature blizzard to fill the sails was useful for maneuvers but exhausting to maintain, the cannons could only take so much arcane saturation before they became a hazard to the crew, and the Forsaken ship was too heavily warded to be boarded magically.

Nothing to do but wait.

There wasn’t much worse than waiting, these days.

 

She felt the warmth of the Light before she heard the hooves bearing it closer. Vindicator Ysra -- Lightforged commander of the troops who would, hopefully, soon be storming the _Banshee’s Wail._

Jaina wondered how many of them would die before justice was done.

“Captain.” The Vindicator stopped and snapped to attention, radiant eyes forward a full foot above Jaina’s head. She saluted, crisp and statuesque in her gleaming armor, sturdy horns following the curve of her head back before curling forward into perfectly rounded hoops. Her features were sharper than most Draenei women Jaina had seen, rugged and resolute, made moreso by a scar that could only have come from a demon’s claws -- three parallel lines, running from lip to hairline, just barely missing one glowing eye.

Altogether, she was… quite handsome. Jaina shoved the thought away as firmly as she could.

“At ease, Vindicator. What is it?”

Ysra snapped her arm back down to her side. “Ma’am. The vanguard is roused, and ready for action at a moment’s notice.” She relaxed slightly, luminous eyes appraising Jaina’s tired face and tense posture. “You just look like you could use a drink, is all.”

Jaina blinked. “Are you… offering?”

She must have put more steel in her voice than she meant to, because the Vindicator immediately snapped back to attention. “Captain. It is the opinion of much of the crew that you might benefit from… ‘something to take the edge off,’ I believe was their parlance. I will admit to some difficulty with the Kul Tiran dialect, but as near as I could tell, they elected me to extend the offer.”

Puzzled, Jaina turned away from the railing to face the Vindicator fully. “They _elected_ you?”

“Yes, Captain. Many have, apparently, found your countenance intimidating of late. As my own is, and I quote, ‘just like that all the time,’ they sent me.”

When Jaina had no immediate response but to stare, the Draenei gave a minute shrug, and an even smaller smile. “I chose to be flattered.”

“I…” Jaina leaned back against the rail. They were _frightened_ of her? She wondered how many of them had seen what she was capable of, and how many had merely heard exaggerated tales. “And what do you think? Of my countenance, of late?”

“I think the crew is used to you being much more personable. Being accustomed to that, and knowing what they do of your power, your deeds, they are unsure of how to approach you now.”

“Observant. But you haven’t answered my question, Vindicator.”

Ysra hesitated a moment before speaking. When she did, her accented voice was softer, quieter.

“I believe I may know more about trauma responses than the average Kul Tiran. Captain.”

“I suppose you do.” Jaina took a deep breath. Tried not to sag too obviously against the rail. “I wasn’t aware the Army of the Light allowed that sort of thing. Drinking, I mean.”

Again that faint smile graced the paladin’s lips. A mischievous lilt crept into her voice. “We are not with the Army of the Light, my lady.”

Jaina smiled despite herself, pleasantly surprised… and a bit mesmerized. Even in the foulest of circumstances, there was nothing quite like being called _my lady_ by a beautiful woman. And the subtle warmth of the Light radiating her certainly wasn’t helping.

But really, what was a drink between officers?

“I see.” She cleared her throat and she bowed slightly, waving an arm toward the cabins at the other end of the deck. “Well, Tides forbid I deny you an authentic Kul Tiran cultural experience.”

She almost winced the second she'd said it. _Very suave, Jaina._

But the Vindicator kept smiling, and mirrored the gesture, and Jaina was _sure_ it had not looked nearly so regal when she did it. “After you, Captain.”

She had scarcely taken three steps when she felt it.

That familiar prickle up the back of her neck. That slight ache in her left knee. The sudden breeze that set her stray hairs dancing, tickling her brow.

It was… _wrong._

The sky was clear in all--

 _“Captain!”_ A man in the rigging, shouting-- _“She’s coming about!”_

Jaina spun on her heel, marching back to the rail and snapping open her spyglass.

The _Banshee’s Wail_ was tacking hard to starboard, shaving off knots of speed, and Jaina’s heart beat double-time.

This was it.

“Match course! Gun crews at the ready!!” She glanced over her shoulder. “Ysra, ready your--”

 _“Captain!!”_ An aging dwarf stumbled up the steps toward her, beard frizzy from the static in the air, eyes wide with panic. One of the Wildhammer shamans.

“What is it?”

“The elements ‘ere, m’lady-- they’re--”

The wind stole his words, rushing across the deck in a furious gust, howling in Jaina’s ears and knocking her off-balance. She stumbled, bracing herself against the rail and in the process glancing back to the _Banshee’s Wail._

The wind had hit it harder. It rocked side to side, sails rippling violently, sending tiny figures plunging into the sea.

There, in the path from which it veered, the sea was churning, being spun by an invisible hand, tendrils of water spiraling up through the air -- and above it, coalescing all too quickly around a central, invisible point, were dark clouds.

Adrenaline surged through Jaina’s veins, hot and quickening.

_Fuck._

She stowed her splyglass as fast as she could, free hand already tracing the glyphs to amplify her voice. _“Hard to starboard!! Take in the mainsails and jibs!! Batten down the hatches!!”_

But even as she shouted she could see the sails snapping taught, full of wind, pulling them in with an ominous groan. Even if they let the sheets fly this instant, between their momentum and the rate it was expanding-- already half a league across, clouds brimming with latent lightning-- _violet_ lightning--

Jaina froze in awe and terror.

 

Spellwork.

 

Masterfully well-hidden, impossibly powerful spellwork. The preparation it must have taken, the raw _power_ …

The Horde wasn’t capable of this. _She_ wasn’t capable of this. It would take a team of mages to rival the Council of--

A scream cut through her thoughts, and her eyes sought the source just in time to see him hit the deck with a sickening _crunch._

He’d been thrown from the rigging.

A drop of rain struck the deck at her feet.

 _“Mister Delowe!”_ She bellowed. The quartermaster, a dark-skinned mainlander, met her gaze from the quarterdeck. Gripping her staff tightly, Jaina let her eyes blaze violet. _“Signal our escort to turn back -- then take command!”_

She could see the hesitation. The glance he took between her and the storm. But his face hardened, and he nodded, and began shouting commands across the deck.

Jaina turned back to the problem at hand, and began to chant. She raised her staff, let it act as a siphon for the energies gathering overhead, and with her free hand formed a second pole, a circuit between fist and staff to let the power circulate and build. The arcane sang through her veins, supercharging every nerve, opening her to the universe--

\--and with it the fathoms-deep, malevolent _will_ within the storm.

 

Suddenly she was a minnow, caught in the wake of a massive, ancient predator as it circled, its baleful gaze like freezing undertow, pulling at her mind--

And a _voice --_ a woman’s voice, like sex on silk, cruel and amused, sending shivers down her spine--

_Such a clever little conjurer. You want this power?_

_Go on, then._

**_Take it._ **

 

That was all the warning she got.

Lightning struck the crystal atop her staff, an electric line of pure energy surging into the spell and snapping out of existence with a deafening **_CRACK_ **that struck her like a physical blow. Pain exploded in her ears and she staggered, just barely holding on to the spell.

The second bolt was muffled. It scorched her skin with its proximity and filled her to the brim with power she could barely contain, and suddenly every line and knot and sail was in her grasp, thrumming with the arcane, her entire body shaking with the effort of channelling it, nerves on fire--

 _Give me a_ **_show,_ ** _Lord Admiral._

Jaina’s eyes snapped open, lighting up the raindrops around her, the soaked wood in front of her--

Squinting into the thickening rain, she found the dark and ragged form of the _Banshee’s Wail_ riding the growing swells ahead, its mainsails flying--

The reality of the situation hit her like a punch in the gut.

There was no way to keep up the chase and live. If they didn’t put serious distance between them and the center of this storm they would be torn apart, every sailor under her command drowned--

But the same was true of the _Banshee’s Wail…_ and the Forsaken ship had no archmage to protect it. Here their cursed endurance counted for nothing. Whatever the _Peacemaker’s_ fate, the Warchief would drown.

In that, she took grim solace.

 _“Everyone out of the rigging!!”_ She cried, barely hearing her own voice through the ringing in her ears. The command was heard and repeated, again and again ‘til it reached the men in on the masts. They scrambled to obey, but it was slow going, the wind and rain threatening to toss them to their deaths.

Soon enough another man slipped, his legs tangling briefly, jarringly in the rigging before he tumbled toward the deck.

Jaina crooked one finger. Violet light bloomed over his torso, enveloping him, slowing his fall.

That one open channel vented just enough of the overwhelming energy for Jaina to split her focus. As sailors scurried down from the rigging, she opened her fist, letting the accumulated power pulse out over the deck, down through the wood of the ship. With a deep breath, she steadied herself, and cupped the hull of the ship in her gauntleted hand.

Something solid brushed against the whirlwind of energy surrounding her — Delowe, face shielded, shouting something she couldn’t hear through the ringing in her ears. Frantically, he pointed to the rigging — the last of them were clear.

With a flick of her staff, she undid every knot, and let the sheets fly, immediately freeing them from the storm’s relentless pull.

With her other hand, she lifted.

The _Peacemaker_ groaned. Slowly but surely, the fore of the ship rose from the churning waves and toward the darkening sky. The clouds were overhead now, casting shadows across the deck even as lightning bristled in their depths and Jaina should have ordered all the shamans up on deck to protect the ship and surely the voice in the storm wouldn’t let it be this easy--

But with a shudder, the aft of the ship lifted free of the waves.

Abruptly, thunder rumbled angrily, lightning striking at the water again, fore, port, aft--

 _“The shamans!”_ She cried over her shoulder. _“Someone get the shamans!”_

It was too late.

Lightning struck the main mast, knocking a wave of searing steam from the wood. Jaina saw sailors stumbling, clutching at blistered skin, mouths open in screams she could not hear--

The ship shuddered beneath her as her focus slipped.

_Fuck fuck fuck_

She poured more energy into her grip on the hull, and as quickly as she could, turned the _Peacemaker_ around, aligning their bow with the ever-more-distant clear seas beyond the storm’s edge. Lightning flashed all around her, stuttering burst of light and heat, but she kept her focus on the spell, on moving them forward.

Then something struck the hull, hard enough to push the _Peacemaker_ to starboard. Jaina leaned with it, arms shaking with effort. The back of her hand prickled as something massive grazed the aura keeping the ship aloft.

She took another steadying breath, and spared a glance -- just in time to see another mountainous wall of water rushing up to swallow them.

Panic lancing through her, Jaina forced the ship forward, faster and higher, bending her legs and leaning forward against the freezing rush of wind and rain--

The wave caught the them amidships, slamming into its aft sections with unstoppable force. The deck lurched beneath her, and Jaina staggered, inertia tugging violently at her--

The _Peacemaker_ was spinning. And _falling,_ down into the valley between two colossal waves, the lattice of energy Jaina had woven over its hull barely able to slow their descent, and not _nearly_ fast enough--

They would be shattered.

With a twist of her feet, she coalesced the oncoming rain, wrapping it around her lower legs and freezing it there, anchoring herself to the deck.

Then she gripped her staff with both hands, and looped the spell through the protective seals hidden within. The Thunder King’s power erupted forth, lightning arcing forth across the deck, scorching wood and burning holes in canvas. It was all Jaina could do not to be consumed by it. With a pained roar, she raised the staff and brought its bare end down to strike the deck. Energy pulsed through, suffusing every plank and nail.

Then, once more, she lifted.

The sudden deceleration almost crushed her. She could feel her spine shortening, her muscles straining to keep her upright, and the violent, shuddering _groan_ of the ship beneath her as it slowed. The ice holding her legs steamed, quickly melting--

 _There --_ they were rising again. Flying. Rain beat at Jaina’s face, forcing her to blink wildly to see at all-- shrinking her vision to that distant light beyond the storm--

The deck lurched up too quickly for her to compensate. Her knees struck the hard wood with a painful _crack_ and she fell, tumbling as the ship tilted beneath her, her spellwork powerless against the fury of the sea.

She looked up, and saw it was down.

Churning waves rushed up to meet her. Violet flashed in the deep.

She couldn’t see the _Banshee’s Wail._ She couldn’t see her escort ships.

_No no no_

Water crashed and frothed across the deck -- Jaina threw her arms out on instinct, freezing and enchanting it as it enveloped her-- 

The world went cold and dark.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have gotten carried away.  
> Azshara ships it.  
> Sylvanas will show up in chapter 3, don't worry!


	3. Marooned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina refuses to yield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me.

Pain.

Stabbing, throbbing pain, in her head and her ears. Aches in her knees and elbows and something in her _throat--_

Jaina retched. Seawater sluiced from her mouth, impossibly salty--

Another pain, bursting in her left side, sending her into a coughing fit, each cough making it worse--

Every deep breath felt like a stab in the ribs. 

Afterward she just lay there, face-down, making sure that she could feel her fingers and toes and the staff in her hand. The damp uniform clinging to her, too thick for the tropical humidity. There was sand on her cheek.

Where…?

It took a concerning amount of effort to open her eyes -- and too keep them open.

A beach stretched out vertically before her, white sand painfully bright in the sun, littered with bits of wood.

Too bright.

She screwed her eyes shut.

Fuck. Alright. Jaina struggled to focus through the pounding throb in her head, to recall the charts in her cabin in the _Peacemaker--_

Panic blazed in her chest. Jaina’s eyes snapped open.

The _crew._

Oh, no.

No no no no.

She lifted her right arm, planted her palm in the sand, and pushed.

She had only raised herself an inch when the effort reached her other side. The pain stole her breath, and she flopped back into the sand, gasping.

 _No no no I have to get up I have to_ **_find them--_ **

Jaina sucked in a fortifying breath, all seasalt and sunbaked kelp.

 _Have to get up have to get_ **_up--_ **

Another. Another, bracing herself, and again she pushed, clenching her jaw against the pain in her side. She pulled her right leg up, knee dragging through the sand, putting just enough space between her torso and the sand to slide both forearms beneath her.

She took a ragged gasp, torso quivering. She felt like a living bruise.

And that didn’t **_matter._ **

With a pained cry, she _shoved,_ violet power surging from her arms and buoying her up onto her feet. She stumbled back, dizzy, boots sinking into wet sand.

She was barely aware of an unnatural tugging sensation in her finger, barely aware that her cloak and pauldron were missing-- all that mattered was the _crew--_

The beach was littered with shattered wood and torn canvas. Ropes like dead snakes.

But she could see no bodies.

Her breath left her in a rush. Where were they?

She staggered forward on shaky legs, zig-zagging through the wreckage as she fought to keep her balance, scouring the beach for any sign of someone, _anyone--_

Where _were_ they? If she had made it…

She’d iceblocked. The other mages could have as well but the _rest--_ Delowe and Ysra and all the others--

She tripped on something, and barely kept herself upright with another burst of magic.

Something moved in the corner of her eye and she spun, eyes wide--

Only to deflate once more.

It was just the corner of a torn sail, flapping in the wind.

Then she noticed the lump in the canvas. Something beneath it, roughly the size of--

 _No no no tides_ **_no_ ** _\--_ ****

She rushed towards it, heart in her throat, the overpowering scent of lightning filling her senses--

Ignoring the pain in her head and her side she reached out, grasping frantically at the moisture in the air, freezing it into an icy cloud and flinging it at the canvas, blowing it aside--

And fell to her knees.

There, tangled in scraps of rigging and horribly, unmistakably pale, was the body of a man in Kul Tiran green and gold. He lay on his back, staring blindly up at the sky, mouth open.

 

_Not again._

 

*****

 

She burned it.

It was draining, reducing it to ash, but burying it would have been moreso, and would  have worsened what she was increasingly sure was at least one broken rib. She could barely stand up without swaying dangerously as it was -- though that probably as much to do with her broken eardrums as it did with exhaustion.

Wainwright. That had been his name. _Its_ name. _It_ had been the bosun.

Pained had taught her that strategy. Thinking of it as the inert lump of flesh it was, and not the person who had inhabited it. 

And here Jaina was, using it to cope with having led two hundred more souls to their deaths.

No. She _knew_ better, knew she had no way of foreseeing the storm… but it did nothing to dull the ache in her chest, or the choking guilt…

No tears came. She didn’t know how to feel about that. Tears had always come -- after Stratholme, Dalaran, her father, Theramore... 

Perhaps she was finally adapting. Perhaps this would get easier.

The thought curdled in her belly. Constricted her parched throat.

Was that what had happened to Sylvanas? Repeated waves of loss, eroding her compassion until it shriveled away to nothing just to keep her sane?

 _Could_ such a mind be called sane?

Jaina clenched her jaw, and banished those thoughts.

_Sylvanas._

It was the _Banshee_ who had drawn them out here to begin with. Everything she had done, everything the _Horde_ had done, and still something inside Jaina wanted to understand, to _sympathize,_ hoping naively for a diplomatic solution…

Was it wrong to want to silence that part of herself?

Her stomach clenched painfully, nauseating in its emptiness.

Enough. She needed to move forward.

No one had come to investigate the smoke. Either no one was there to investigate, or those that were had been rendered incapable. But there were miles of beach to wash up on, the wreckage scattered as far as she could see in either direction… and she was injured, drained, and too dizzy to walk any faster than a stroll.

She needed to make camp. Feed herself, assess the damage. Rest.

For the first time, she looked inland.

Beachgrass-covered dunes rose like a wall between her and the forest beyond, but even from sea level she could see… well. _Were_ they mountains, categorically? They looked more like great pillars of rock, hewn jagged by some geological process, craggy sides spotted with bursts and blooms of green. There were dozens of them, stabbing up from forested slopes, wreathed in mist. Pandaria?

Pandaria hadn’t been this oppressively  _hot…_

Her stomach clenched again, achingly empty.

Wherever she was, she needed to eat, needed to _drink._ Her mana was dangerously low, her muscles sore and hands shaking, head throbbing every time she moved…

She needed to get out of the _sun._

With a pained hiss, she started up the dunes.

It was slow going. Like walking through the mud of Dustwallow. After losing a pub fight. Not that she’d ever been in that situation.

A smirk stole over her lips, even as she leaned on her staff, panting.

If she got out of here in one piece, back to Boralus, she was going to start a pub fight.

 

_An authentic Kul Tiran cultural experience._

 

Fuck.

She’d missed out on too many of those.

Jaina stumbled down the inland side of the dunes, very nearly falling several times. Sweat stung at her eyes, dripped down her back, and pooled uncomfortably under her breasts.

This  _fucking_ uniform…

She leaned on her staff again, breathing ragged against the sharp ache in her side.

She had to keep her breaths shallow. That was doable. Easy. 

From the far side of the dunes, it wasn’t far to the treeline. Here on the edge of the forest they were narrow, fairly sparse things, their branches just barely competing for sunlight. But there was _shade,_ and that gave her the will to start forward again.

The ground grew firmer, the beach grass mingling with fallen leaves. Before long, ferns brushed her thighs with every step. The branches grew thicker overhead, finally shielding her from the relentless burn of the sun.

_Tides, I must look like a lobster._

She found a large stone, worn smooth by the rains, half-enmeshed in the roots of a larger tree but still within sight of the dunes, and there she sat.

For several long moments, it was all she could do to breathe through the pain in her side and the throbbing in her skull. The subtle numbness starting at her toes and fingertips…

She hadn’t depleted her mana like this since Zuldazar. It felt like she’d gone five rounds with a felhound.

And the choking dryness of her mouth and throat demanded more of her yet.

The nearest source of freshwater could be leagues inland, and with no knowledge of the terrain…

All she had was this cloying humidity.

She surveyed her surroundings, glancing from leaf to leaf until she found one that would suit her purposes: wide and trough-like, and, more importantly, low enough that she would not have to strain her ribs to retrieve it.

Standing and crossing to it was still taxing, the ache in her limbs weighing her down. It took considerable effort to tear the leaf from its stalk.

With it loosely clutched in her gauntlet, she again sat and rested. When she had caught her breath, she tipped her staff across her lap and flexed her free hand, opening a channel within herself and reaching out to the water in the air--

And gasped in discomfort as the spell _tugged_ at every nerve of her hand before flickering out.

Fuck.

Jaina clenched her hand into a fist until the feeling faded. Then, with a deep breath, she tried again.

The feeling reached her elbow this time, but she refused to let go, pouring all her focus and will into feeling the water in the air.

Slowly, a haze of chilled particles began to take shape above the leaf.

The unnatural pull reached her shoulder, draining strength and sensation all too quickly--

But at last, distinct drops of water formed out of thick air, two, five, ten, eighteen--

With a gasp, she released the magic, casting arm dropping limply to her side. The droplets fell onto the leaf in her hand, and rolled down into its crease. In all, maybe two handfuls of water.

Jaina drank it down greedily, the cold slide of it down her throat enough to make her want to sing praises to her younger self for all those long hours bent over dusty old tomes. In that moment, all the hand cramps and headaches and all-nighters were _so_ worth it.

And then it was gone.

Damn.

No, this was alright. Some water was better than none, and she’d found shelter from the sun, if not from _all_ of the heat. She could make camp here, gather her strength enough to start thinking about finding other survivors and getting out of here…

Oh. Her right hand flew to one of the pouches on her belt, feeling for--

Oh thank the tides.

With some difficulty, she unbuttoned it, reached in, and pulled out her hearthstone.

And faltered.

The swirl of runes engraved in the stone were dimmed. Still glowing, but fainter than they should be. She could feel the enchantment pulsing within it, but it was _warm_ in her palm, the crisp, rainy aura of Boralus utterly absent.

There was… _interference._

Heat that had nothing to do with the sun flared in her chest, spurring her heart to race and her lungs to suck in quickening breaths that stabbed at her side.

Violet in the deep.

 

_Azshara._

 

It was almost unreal to her, despite having felt the lightning, the wind and rain... 

The most powerful sorceress the world had ever seen had her trapped. Alone. On this island.

On _this_ island. When she could easily have killed her, smote her with lightning instead of empowering her--

Jaina looked into the thickening jungle, uphill to where she knew those colossal pillars stood, hiding… what?

What was on this island?

Part of her was curious. Most of her was terrified.

She had to get out of here.

Her only way out was a portal -- but for that she needed to know where she was, _exactly_ where she was, where Boralus was in relation to where she was, where the leylines were--

And she could barely walk a dozen paces without panting and sweating.

On impulse, she stood. Her staff rolled from her lap and onto the forest floor.

_“Fuck!”_

 

*****

 

She hadn’t marched back to the beach with any purpose beyond the need to _move,_ just to calm her nerves with the feeling of doing something. But once there, back among the shattered fragments of the _Peacemaker,_ she moved on instinct -- weaving through the wreckage, eyes skimming over every plank and rope for anything she could use.

She managed to find one of the masts --part of it, anyway-- and, lashed to it by a tangle of defunct rigging, a torn scrap of canvas no broader than she was tall. She had to rest for longer than she’d have liked after untangling it, losing precious water through her sweat, but it proved an effective vehicle for a small pile of soon-to-be firewood.

Making note of its position relative to the path she’d taken to the forest, she continued down the beach.

 

At least Azshara had killed the Banshee as well.

Although... she wouldn’t drown, would she? Just sink, weighed down by her armor and weapons. And no predator would see her as food, not so long-dead, not full of necromantic magic. She would just sink, until the crushing pressure stole her mobility, her body trapped... 

But there were things in the lightless depths that did not care for the undead… least of all their leader.

Jaina should have felt victorious. Relieved. But she just felt… sick.

She _knew_ Sylvanas deserved it, or-- or at least that the world deserved the _peace_ her death might bring, _had to bring…_ but still that unease lingered, sticking in her throat.

It still felt _wrong._

It just... it didn’t have to come to this.

 _Tides,_ if only she hadn’t met Sylvanas _before._ If only that dashing hero of a ranger had never rescued her from Kael’thas’ pestering, if she hadn’t watched over Jaina so selflessly whenever they crossed paths…

Jaina stifled the urge to kick a piece of driftwood, and pressed on.

No.

She was marooned in unfamiliar, potentially hostile territory. Regret was an enemy, here. _Guilt_ was an enemy.

And regardless of what the Banshee deserved, the _world_ deserved the peace that might result from her death. In her absence, a more honorable leader would become Warchief. After months of needless suffering, they might finally be on the path to peace.

But even the tired, desperate hope was tainted by wary confusion… and a small ember of fear in her belly.

For why would Azshara want the Alliance and Horde to stop fighting?

 

*****

 

By the time she found the first intact supply crate half-buried in the surf, the sun was nearing the horizon. Her lips were painfully chapped, her face felt like it was on fire, and her thighs and back screamed with every movement. Her staff felt like it was made of iron, more a burden than an aid. 

She managed to kneel beside the crate without jostling her ribs too badly.

The edge of a wave quickly soaked her pants and filled one boot, but at least it was cool.

Letting her staff fall into the sand beside her, she reached back, feeling along her belt for…

Oh, Tides favor Pained for convincing her to carry a dagger.

Jaina couldn’t stop the tear that leaked from her eye at the memory.

Damn it.

_Regret is an enemy. **Guilt** is an enemy.  _

She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and aligned the dagger’s point with the edge of a nail-head. Put her palm to the pommel and _shoved._

Her ribs protested. Her head protested. Her arms and shoulders and hands protested. Still she leaned into it, twisting the dagger, working the point under the nail-head. Shoved again. Again.

When it the edge of the blade slipped under it, she began to pry.

It took her what felt like hours, left her soaked in sweat, and jostled her broken ribs enough to pull tears from her eyes. But finally, with eight long iron nails lying scattered in the sand, she managed to pry the lid free. Shoving it aside with a pained grunt, she peered hungrily into the crate -- and froze.

Twelve squat, rounded bottles of dark liquid glinted in the sun, held in a neat grid by wooden dividers, **TRADEWINDS RUM CO.** stamped on their labels.

Jaina blinked.

Then she burst out laughing.

Her body shook with it, stabbing at her side, and she had to grip the crate to stay upright. Before long, her entire torso was burning, tears blurring her vision.

_Just my luck._

 

*****

 

She tried to drag her pile of firewood into the forest, but couldn’t get it over the dunes. The wood rolled downhill off the canvas every time.

In the dark.

She ended up making camp at the base of the slope, though calling it a camp was… generous. She dumped the wood and spread the canvas out as a blanket, then she tore up some beachgrass and stuffed it into the spaces between the planks. Thankfully, she’d barely need to expend any mana to light them. She simply laid her staff down, pointed the crystal at her sad little pile, and eased the seals within it _just_ slightly.

Feeble lightning _cracked_ out, striking the sand in several places before setting the grass aflame. Gasping with relief, Jaina used her body to shield it from the wind until it caught the planks.

Within minutes, she had a crackling fire, providing heat to ward off the chill of the sea wind and light to ward off wildlife.

Unfortunately, protecting herself from the unknown _would_ require mana. For that she had a small sack of arcane beacons -- a dozen tiny balls of steel, engraved with runes of tethering, containing Azerite crystals. She paced a wide circle around her fire, dropping one every few strides, and held the last one between thumb and forefinger.

She breathed deep, and let the magic flow.

None came.

_Oh, don’t fail me now…_

She tried again.

And again.

_Fuck._

_Alright. Back to basics._

Jaina closed her eyes, straightened her back, though it pained her, planted her feet shoulder-width apart. Took another deep breath, felt it fill her lungs. Felt her heart beating, faster than it should be, and focused on it.

For a long moment she did nothing but breathe.

Then she pictured a door.

Her image of it had become clearer, over the years. She could see the planks that made the door, even and lacquered. She could see the rich green paint, the gold of the doorframe. The bronze anchor symbol embedded in its center. The bronze handle, slightly squeaky, that ensured she could never sneak into the library undetected…

She turned it, and while squeezing the beacon between her fingers, she pulled the door open.

This time, the tug was in her chest, sharp and violent. The door disappeared in a burst of color, and Jaina cried out, falling to her knees. The numbness returned in full force, tingling through her hands and feet. Her head throbbed like she’d been struck.

She clutched at her heart, sucking in shallow gasps of air as she tried to breathe through it without hurting. She was _dizzy,_ the sand beneath her pitching like the _Peacemaker’s_ deck--

She fell to all fours, and gasped again as it jostled her ribs. She could feel tears pooling in her eyes, and opened them.

Faint lines of violet energy connected the beacons, in a ring around the fire, fading in and out of visibility -- and only visible to her, from whom the catalyst mana had come.

A perfect, well-hidden arcane tripwire.

Breathing still ragged, Jaina plucked the final beacon from the sand. She could feel the power running through it, a gentle buzz against her palm. She tucked it under the top button of her collar, and stood.

And immediately stumbled forward, head swimming, too dizzy to orient herself.

She hit the sand hard, and her world was pain.

 

 

*****

 

 

_What…_

Her head hurt. Everything hurt, but her head most of all. Every pulse was agony.

There was warmth, somewhere above… next to her?

But what was..

There, again-- a buzz against her neck, a…

Arcane.

Why was…?

Oh.

_Oh._

Jaina’s eyes snapped open.

She was lying on her left side.

The fire crackled somewhere above her head, casting flickering light across the sand. The moon, half-full, cast its own across the waves. And there -- several yards away, that faint violet--

 _Fuck,_ something was here, she had to get _up--_

She pulled her arm under her, wincing and gasping as it brushed her aching side. She rolled onto her front, arms beneath her, and pushed herself up onto all fours--

Something moved in the darkness.

 

Jaina went very still, and looked up.

 

Two yellow eyes stared back at her, unblinking.

Feline.

The rest was black. Utterly black. She could only see what the firelight touched -- but it was enough.

Paws large enough to cover her entire face.

A massive head. Powerful jaws.

Tides it was at least thrice her size--

Heat coursed through her, heart pounding--

And she could not cast.

Where was her staff where was her _staff--_

Could she look away? What would it do if she looked away?

If she didn’t find her staff it wouldn’t matter.

She did.

 _There--_ still where she’d dropped it, just out of arm’s reach--

The beast began to crouch.

Slowly, staring right back at it, Jaina slid her left hand out over the sand, inching toward her staff.

Claws like Zandalari daggers slid out of the beast’s paws.

Her fingertips reached it. She tried to stretch further, but her ribs twinged and she gasped, arm going limp--

Something whistled through the air--

The beast sprang back, baring teeth as long as Jaina’s hands, and loosed a guttural growl.

 

Planted in the sand, not a foot from where its head had been, was a long black arrow.

 

The beast prowled right, eyes on the shaft, keeping Jaina between itself and the fire.

Then one of its ears flicked.

It turned away from her, looking back into the darkness, the growl redoubling, deeper and louder. Its tail dropped low to the ground, bristling, whipping from side to side-- 

_\--fearful?--_

\--and slowly, paw over paw, it began to back away, toward the surf.

Then Jaina felt it. 

Cold, metallic  _pressure_ in the air. Churning like a silent storm. A silent  _scream._

 

No.

Tides, _no._

 

But with a snarl and a burst of upturned sand the beast was gone, into the night… leaving Jaina alone and on her knees before the glowing, blood-red glare of the Banshee Queen.

She lunged for her staff, heaving it out of the sand without regard for the stabbing twinge in her side, and leapt to her feet, brandishing it like a spear.

The Banshee barely glanced at it.

She strolled leisurely into the firelight, tall and dark and dreadful. Her armor was whole, undamaged, silver accents glinting, leather flexing and she had a sabre on her hip, a bow across her back--

She stopped directly in the beam of Jaina’s tripwires, causing the beacon to buzz relentlessly against Jaina’s neck--

And as her gaze burned over Jaina’s ragged form, a cruel smirk curling her long-dead lips, she drawled:

 

“Fancy meeting you here, Lord Admiral.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It begins. <3


	4. Blood and Ichor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas smirks a lot.  
> Jaina has feelings about it.

 

 

Heart and head pounding, Jaina eased the seals within her staff just enough to make it crackle dangerously, arcs of power snapping between the crystal and the metal prongs that held it.

The Banshee eyed it only briefly, still smirking. Unnaturally still. The wicked claws of her gauntlets hung grimly at her sides. No breath, no movement whatsoever, accompanied that honeyed-poison lilt:  

“As impressive as it is that you can still stand after fighting so _valiantly_ against that storm, I’d rather you save your strength.”

It was unnerving.

Jaina only stood up straighter, schooling her features through the pain, and put steel in her voice. “State your business, _Banshee.”_

That cruel smirk waned. “My business is my own… but at the moment, it does not include executing a helpless, half-drowned conjurer.”

_Clever little conjurer…_

No. She would **_not_ ** be baited.

“How _convenient_ of you to suddenly develop a sense of honor.”

The Banshee clasped both hands behind her back, expressionless. “You misunderstand, Lady Proudmoore. Killing you now would simply make for poor propaganda. No…” Her voice lowered dangerously. “Better that you die in full view of your friends and allies.”

“You’ll find I have no such reservations about ending _you,_ ” Jaina spat. “State your purpose before I reduce you to ash.”

The Banshee did not react. Just stared, unblinking, unmoving, unbreathing--

Her right arm moved, bending, seeking something behind her back. Jaina gripped her staff tight, made it crackle and glow in warning--

The Banshee tossed something into the sand beside the campfire.

A hearthstone.

A _dimmed_ hearthstone, the same as Jaina’s save for the dull red of its runes--

“It seems the queen beneath the waves has _plans_ for us both… and unlike some of your compatriots, I know better than to quarrel with a lesser enemy when cooperation is our only hope against the greater threat.”

... _what?_

An incredulous laugh spilled from Jaina’s lips. “You want me to _cooperate_ with _you??”_

The Banshee’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “Were you not reeling from overexertion and injury, you might have noticed I said nothing of _desire,_ Lord Admiral.” She paused. Hummed, just barely too loud to be natural, and the fire flickered lower. “Now that I think of it… when you cannot be found, that role will pass to your brother, will it not? I wonder how the war effort will fare without you.”

Fear flared in Jaina’s belly. She raged against it. “And _I_ wonder how long yours will last in the hands of… who? Lor’themar? _Saurfang?”_

_Take that, you utter--_

The Banshee’s eyes blazed like twin coals, shadows somehow pooling around them. “I speak of necessity, Proudmoore. Alone, your odds of survival are no better than my odds of escape.”

...fuck.

_Fuck._

She was no ranger, but Sylvanas was no archmage.

She could no more fend for herself in this state than the Warchief could unravel whatever was trapping them here.

Jaina steeled herself, even as her arms shook with the effort of keeping her staff angled at the Banshee. “And what proof do I have that you _are_ alone? How do I know there aren’t a dozen arrows trained on me right now?”

Even as she said it, the image sent a prickling heat down her back.

And again, the Banshee smirked. “What difference does it make to your imminent starvation? Your broken rib? The _infection_ that will soon take root in your inner ears and spread through your skull?”

How did she…

A shiver ran over her limbs, up her neck--

Sylvanas must have been watching her.

Which… did she _wait_ until that beast was about to _eat_ _her_ just to make a _statement??_

“We are alone,” said the Banshee. “I have scouted the entire coastline between what remains of our ships, and found naught but corpses.”

But rage already coursed through her veins, quickening her heart and mind and tongue, roughening her already-parched voice-- “Tell me, _Banshee_ \-- what makes you so certain I wouldn’t sacrifice myself to _trap you_ here? To save both the Alliance _and_ Horde from you?”

The Banshee did not react, her face once again a death-mask.

Then, staring Jaina down, she took a step forward. The arcane buzz against Jaina’s neck cut off so abruptly that she jolted--

“Your mother.”

Another step.

“Your _brothers.”_

Another.

_“Vereesa.”_

Jaina’s body screamed at her to retreat. “No further!”

The Banshee halted, no more than a few strides between them.

And again, terrifying and infuriatingly self-satisfied, she fucking _smirked._

_“Anduin.”_

Jaina’s heart was in her throat.

Because despite the _poison_ in the Banshee’s words, despite the danger she posed to all of Azeroth… she was right.

 

Jaina couldn’t abandon them.

 

“Believe what you will.” The Banshee waved one gauntleted hand dismissively. “The fact remains that I am your only hope of surviving this.”

The rage reared up again. Jaina felt sick. Had she _planned_ this entire conversation?

“And _I_ am your only hope of escape,” she shot back. “But what’s to keep you from knifing me in the back the moment we’re free of this place?”

The Banshee’s voice sweetened into a grim mockery of flattery. “Don’t sell yourself short. Surely a mage of your prowess would be able to hold me off.”

 _Tides,_ she was _infuriating._

“Has your mind decayed so much that you are incapable of speaking in anything but _insults_ and _taunts?”_

“Lady Proudmoore…” An actual _smile_ parted the Banshee’s purple lips, baring vicious fangs to the firelight. “Why would I make this easy when your rage is so becoming?”

 

She may as well have slapped Jaina in the face.

 

“Enough of this!” Jaina clenched her jaw, glaring back at those damn unblinking eyes, searching desperately for another option, a way _out_ of this, but her mind was so _fogged…_

Water. She couldn’t _think_ without _water._ Her throat was so dry... 

And didn’t have the mana to conjure it.

And she would never find it on her own, she could barely _stand…_

The Banshee tilted her head ever so slightly, like another damned feline predator watching its prey.

Fuck.

_Fuck!_

Jaina stabbed the bottom of her staff into the dirt and leaned on it heavily. She tried to keep the frustration from shaking her voice.

She failed.

“If I find out you’ve deceived me in **_any way--_ **”

The Banshee bowed, just, slightly, smoldering eyes never leaving Jaina’s, one hand behind her back, the other laid formally across her armored chest. “Then the deal is off, and I will wish you the best of luck with starvation and bother you no further.”

The _deal._

A _deal_ with the Butcher of Darkshore.

This wasn’t safe this wasn’t safe this wasn’t _safe--_

 

...but Jaina could make it so.

 

Fuck.

She shouldn’t even be considering this… but the Banshee had no honor. She _needed_ some assurance so she wouldn’t just be stabbed in the back…

So with a steadying breath, she steeled herself once again, and said:

“No.”

 

The Banshee blinked. Her ears twitched down from their self-assured slant. Her eyes dimmed. _“No?”_

 

Triumph surged through Jaina, twisting her face into a mirror of the Banshee’s cruel smirk. “Does that shock you, _Warchief?_ After all you have done, did you honestly expect me to trust your word? _No._ I’ll do you one better.”

 

Those long ears flicked flat against the sides of the Banshee’s head. That crimson glow returned in full force, almost brighter than the fire beside them.

She did not speak.

 

Jaina pressed on. “I will agree to this on one condition -- that our binding words be sealed with blood and magic. A pact in the old ways.”

The Banshee’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain you have the strength for that?”

Jaina ignored her. “You will see to our survival. My… wellbeing. Health. I will see to our escape. If either of us betrays this agreement, the magic will take her life.”

“ _Proudmoore._ Do you have the strength?”

She glared up at the Banshee. “I do.”

No reaction. “There is a _reason_ such pacts were abandoned. Even outlawed, in Quel’thalas. I have no desire to be killed by a vagary of wording.”

Jaina’s limbs were like lead. It was becoming difficult to keep her eyes open. “Do you want my help or not?” She adjusted her grip on her staff. “If you do me any harm--”

“You’re half-dead already. I will need to do painful things to heal you.”

“Let me finish, Banshee. I will consent to what pain is necessary for my recovery. But any harm to which I do  _not_ consent to will be your end.”

“And any action that compromises our odds of escape will be yours.”

“It will.”

 

The stared at each other for a moment, Jaina struggling to breath, the Banshee utterly motionless save for the subtle, pulsing glow of her eyes.

 

Then a clawed hand went to her belt, to the hilt of her saber. “Very well.”

Oh, _fuck_ no.

“Allow me.” Jaina drew her own dagger. “Well? Come here.”

The Banshee’s ears flicked, just slightly, but Jaina was too tired to interpret.

Chainmail clinked. Leather creaked.

A clawed gauntlet fell to the sand.

Holding her staff in the crook of her arm, Jaina tugged the glove off of her left hand.

The Banshee stepped closer, less than an arm’s length away, and Jaina fought the urge to step back. She was so _tall,_ her eyes so _wrong,_ and the smell of cold metal and leather wafted over Jaina, along with something… _floral?_

A greyish-blue hand rose between them. For the first time since the Banshee had invaded her camp, those eyes left Jaina’s… to contemplate her own open palm.

“I’m afraid I lack _blood,_ as such. Will this still work?”

“Are your veins decayed?”

“No.”

“Is there _something_ in them?”

“Yes.”

“Then it will work.” With that, Jaina pressed the dagger across her own palm, took a deep breath, and cut.

It stung, and _burned_ worse than the pain in her side, but not worse than the pain in her ears.

She tried not to dwell on that.

Clenching her jaw against the pain, she handed the dagger over.

The Banshee gripped it in her still-gauntleted hand, and Jaina could have sworn her eyes glowed just a bit brighter as they fell upon the blood on its blade.

Then they were back on her.

Jaina met that gaze as fiercely as she could, even as her legs trembled beneath her. “Well?”

Those purple lips twitched.

In one fluid motion, the Banshee sliced open her palm and flipped the dagger around, presenting the hilt to Jaina.

Expressionless. Even as something black and viscous began to ooze from the wound. 

_Bloody undead…_

She took it. Wiped it on her skirt. Sheathed it on the back of her belt. Seized the Banshee’s hand.

Even in the tropical heat, it was cold.

Slowly, tentatively, almost _gently,_ those slender, dead fingers closed around her own, that thick fluid smearing coldly-- 

 _“Ash karath,”_ hissed the Banshee. 

_Do it._

Jaina closed her eyes.

Pictured the door -- even planks, green paint, gold frame, bronze anchor bronze handle.

She took a deep breath. Braced herself. Opened it.

And cried out in pain.

The tug wasn’t just in her chest, it was _everywhere,_ and Jaina saw stars of every color--

\--but she could feel the _magic_ buzzing through her veins, into her stinging hand, and grit her teeth, sucking in agonizing breaths--

Sharp metal fingers closed around her shoulder, holding her up. The hand in hers gripped harder, cool and strong, her only anchor--

The magic tugged at her every nerve.

 

 _“Shal myrinan--”_ she gasped, _“--ishnu daldorah-- arama sh'nala fasima-- ru adala fal, ru xaxas, ru alash’anir-- ishnu mal'nala fal!!”_

The spell was formed.

 

It pulled at her ruthlessly, leeching every ounce of mana from her trembling form, _burning_ in her cut, thrumming in the air around their joined hands--

 _“I-- Jaina Proudmoore-- hereby s-swear on-- pain of death to-- to do everything within my power to-- secure for--”_ \--a shudder racked her body, muscles spasming and cramping--

\--cold metal on her forehead--

 _“--for both of us a-- an escape from this island-- and-- and to be bound by this_ **_pact_ ** _un--_ **_fuck--_ ** _until I am safely back in Boralus and you, Sylvanas Windrunner, are safely back in Zuldazar--_ **_aaah!”_ **

It was too much too much too much too much--

The Banshee spoke.

Gone was the mockery, the poison. Her voice was steady, it was the _only_ thing that was steady--

“I, Sylvanas Windrunner, hereby swear on pain of death to do everything in my power to secure the health and wellbeing of us both, and to be bound by this pact until I am safely back in Zuldazar and you, Jaina Proudmoore--”

Oh… when had she last heard her first name in that voice?

“--are safely back in Boralus.”

 _Fuck_ focus focus **_focus_ **

Jaina hissed in a breath, and ground out: _“Togethernow--”_

“I know.”

 

**_“Ishnu oshalan thara-- tor ilisar thera’nal!!”_ **

 

A line of liquid fire seared itself into her palm, wrapping tight around her hand around her wrist around her arm around her _heart--_

Jaina had no breath to scream.

She had no control. Her back snapped taught, her eyes snapped open--

Sparks in the night--

She fell.

The last thing she felt was strong arms around her, blissfully cool fingers cupping the back of her head…

Then nothing.

 

 

*******

 

 

Well.

That was entertaining.

Sylvanas lowered the human onto the ragged canvas, careful not to jostle her ribs or head.

Stubborn creature.

She would fit in well among the Forsaken, if it ever came to that…

A thought for later.

From the sweat pouring off her and the feverish flush in her cheeks, it was obvious the temperature here must be unbearable for her.

And yet the only heat Sylvanas could feel was that of her living body, like a beacon in the night, pulling at her fingertips even as it almost burned them…

She pulled her hand away. Busied it with the buttons of the mage’s collar, unfastening and tugging swiftly until it was open.

It only released more tantalizing warmth.

Good for Proudmoore. _Tempting_ for Sylvanas.

She could hear the blood pulsing through the mage’s neck, and forced herself to listen past the _heat…_

Too quick. Too faint.

The same was true of her breathing. Her full lips were chapped, only shallow gasps passing between them, and her pretty features were gaunt, sunburned, and twisted in pain. The sea had undone her braid as well, and white hair fanned out around her in tangled waves, shining in the firelight. 

Quickly and deftly, Sylvanas untied a leather pouch from her belt and unscrewed its metal cap. Then, gently cupping Proudmoore’s chin, she tipped it, and let freshwater trickle into her mouth.

The human stirred. Groaned. Gulped it down.

Sylvanas repeated the process until the pouch was empty. Kneeled back to survey the woman’s prone form.

It was an exquisite uniform. But it wasn’t doing her any favors.

Practically, at least.

The stiff white fabric of her high-collared, corseted top was scorched and dirtied, smeared with sand and dirt and ash. Her pauldron and cloak must have been torn away by the sea, but that pouch-laden belt and heavy-looking skirt remained. One of her legs was free of it, revealing dark blue leggings and gold-accented boots.

The gauntlet remained as well. That would have to go -- it put undue strain on the serratus muscles of her left side. She’d probably exacerbated those broken ribs already, forcing open that crate and hauling all that wood. It was a wonder she hadn’t punctured her lung.

 

Stubborn was the wrong word, wasn’t it?

Sylvanas had seen how hard she fought against the storm. It had been the _last_ thing she’d seen, before the waters swallowed her-- the fine control and raw power to manage the intricate rigging while simultaneously _lifting_ over a thousand tons of ship…

That was pure _tenacity,_ the likes of which…

Well.

To think that timid, bookish girl that had once needed defending from suitors had become this  _blizzard_ of a woman... 

Sylvanas banished the unwelcome memory with a twitch. 

When the time came, it would be a pity to slay her -- but a _pleasure_ to raise her.

Her spirit would surely acquiesce; those attachments, that fierce determination to better the world…

But first things first.

 

She set about unbuckling Proudmoore’s corset, and found it reinforced with narrow plates of steel. Likely enchanted. With that tossed aside, the mage was left in a less constricting shirt that laced up the front. Sylvanas made quick work of that as well.

The heat was almost _intoxicating,_ insofar as such a term could apply.

Clearly that python she’d drained while scouting hadn’t been quite enough. 

Only a thin, sleeveless cotton shirt remained. Through it, Sylvanas could see the rise and fall of her shapely breasts and the less-than subtle protrusion of her ribcage, the lack of insulating fat necessary for Kul Tiras’ harsh winters…

Combined with the darkened flesh around her eyes, it told a tale.

Careful not to let her own frigid fingers touch the woman’s flesh, Sylvanas pinched the hem of the undershirt and lifted it to just below her breasts.

The bruising was extensive. Large splotches of red and purple covered nearly the entire left side of her ribcage.

No recourse, then. Gently, she pressed several fingers into the bottom edge of the bruises. Proudmoore stirred again, inhaling sharply and then stiffening, features contorting in pain. But her breathing continued without any telltale wheeze. Sylvanas continued her search, up along the ninth, eighth… there. The eighth, seventh, and sixth ribs were all fractured, but not too badly deformed.

Between that, her eardrums, dehydration, mana depletion…

All ailments Sylvanas had experience mending.

She was salvageable. But just barely.

Azshara had cut it close.

The tantalizing heat of Proudmoore’s sleeping form all of a sudden seemed a hazard, a distraction. Sylvanas pulled away, and folded the canvas over her. Then she rose to her feet. Looked away from the fire, into the night.

In the moonlight, those tall, narrow rock formations bore a grim resemblance to the long teeth of a ghoul, chipped and uneven, their roots mired in that pale, amorphous fog. Untold leagues of jungle. Untold perils within.

Nothing good would come of this.

Turning back to the firelight, she examined her un-gauntleted hand.

The cut had been seared shut… and extended. It wrapped around to the back of her hand, where it crossed over itself and curved down to either side of her wrist before disappearing into her sleeve. It was faintly luminous in the moonlight, like a silver thread…

Beside her, Proudmoore’s heart beat like an Orcish war-drum even in its weakened state.

Sylvanas crouched to retrieve her gauntlet… and paused. It wouldn’t do for some exotic predator to come along and devour the mage while she was out hunting. Even walking away without precaution might well count as breaking the pact…

Buckling the gauntlet back on, she walked toward the surf, just far enough that the heat and relentless  _motion_ of Proudmoore’s body wouldn’t distract her from… there.

Sylvanas kneeled again. Palmed the sand. Reached down into it, beyond herself. Small, chitinous bodies burrowed frantically away.

Not fast enough.

With a burst of shadowy magic, they stilled.

“There we are," she murmured. "Come now… keep the Lord Admiral company, won’t you?”

 

With one last glance at the unconscious woman, she drew her bow and stalked toward the jungle.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)  
> Let Jaina say fuck!!


	5. Husked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With special appearances by guest stars Sylvanas "I Am Aware of the Effect I Have on Women" Windrunner and Baby Bi Jaina! 
> 
> Special thanks to my lovely gf for helping me actually edit this chapter.
> 
> I am living for your comments! <3

 

 

The Violet Ballroom was _beautiful_.

Vaulted ceilings rose high above Jaina’s head, illuminated by a thousand warm mage-lights that floated and swirled about like jellyfish in a gentle current. The walls were painted royal purple, and rowed with decorative pillars of glowing white marble. Suspended in the air before each one were large, ornate bowls of incense, sweet smoke that was somehow equally invigorating and soothing curling elegantly through the air above them.

After the four glasses of wine Prince Kael’thas had simply _insisted_ she enjoy (and which she had accepted just to make his vain droning slightly more tolerable) it was mesmerizing.

If a little dizzying.

And a _hundredfold_ more interesting than the endless procession of nobles he was introducing her too.

They filled the room, decked out in flowing capes, bejeweled pauldrons, and puffed-up, gilded ball gowns… their wealth and finery matched only by their incredible _dullness._

“Ah!” The Prince pulled her suddenly in a different direction, toward an older elven man in Quel’thalas red and gold who was speaking to several men of Stormwind.  

“Magister Belo’vir!” Greeted the Prince. “This is Lady Jaina Proudmoore of Kul Tiras, daughter of the Lord Admiral and apprentice of Archmage Antonidas -- indeed, something of a rising star, I’m told…”

So it went, interview after over-courteous interview. Jaina smiled prettily, curtsied properly, laughed daintily, and talked small.

It all felt so _choreographed._

She knew what he was doing, of course. The Prince. _Look at my connections. My influence. This could all be yours as well._

It was stifling. She had managed to entertain herself for an hour or so by theorizing about the method by which those mage-lights were made to swirl seemingly at random. Then for a while she made a game out of sensing which nobles were magic-users and which were not, but it soon became clear that anyone in the ballroom with magical prowess had about five titles proclaiming it.

_Mainlanders._

Mother’s relentless coaching had made the posture, gait and etiquette second nature, but the way the Prince was _steering_ her around the ballroom had grated on her nerves from the start.

And the _dress_ that had been packed for her certainly wasn’t helping. The corset was a constant, constricting pressure around her middle, and with her tits pushed halfway up to her bloody _neck_ there was no way whatsoever to be comfortable being led around by the linked arm of a man so much taller and stronger than her.

But mother had very thoroughly impressed upon her that declining such an offer was something that was _Simply not done._

So here she was -- trussed up in impractical finery and quite bit more tipsy than one should probably be while meeting noble-folk from across the continent, instead of back in the library studying for her upcoming examination.

Kael’thas was steering her toward a group of Stromgardians when woman’s voice, strong and steady, cut through the haze.

 

“I beg your pardon, Crown Prince.”

 

“Lady Windrunner, _there_ you are.” The polite warmth with which he had greeted the rest was absent. This was… businesslike. Jaina turned to look -- and very nearly gasped.

 

The woman before her was… _unreasonably_ attractive.

She stood taller and more _solidly_ than any elf Jaina had yet seen, broad shoulders and narrow waist hugged by a forest green, silver-accented military jacket and trousers — rakishly _unbuttoned_ from high collar to firm-looking chest. A sapphire pendant swayed as she bent slightly at the waist and laid a leather-gloved hand across the looping embroidery.

 

“Lady Proudmoore,” said Kael’thas, utterly without flourish, “Allow me to introduce Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Quel’thalas, defender of High Elven society.”

 

Silver eyes met Jaina’s, lined with dark kohl that lent them a subtly feline flair. And then she _smiled,_ slightly but honestly _,_ strong-jawed and sun-kissed and as handsome as she was beautiful. Two thick silver rings hung from either earlobe, glinting in the light.

Jaina was suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands. Her face was very warm.

 

“An honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Proudmoore.”

 

Jaina was a little breathless. “The pleasure—”

_Oh tides no._

“—the _honor_ is all mine, Lady Windrunner.”

 

_Fuck._

 

The Ranger-General arched a platinum blonde eyebrow, but said nothing. Then she straightened to her full height, hands clasped behind her, and that little smile was gone -- in its place a measured professionalism and a tone to match as she looked back to the Prince.

“Crown Prince, I apologize for the intrusion, but I felt it was my duty to inform you that Magister Umbric is speaking with the Gilnean ambassador.”

“Umbric?” Kael’thas unhooked his arm from Jaina’s. “Has he been…?”

“I’m afraid so, Your Highness.”

“I see.” He turned to Jaina, apologetic. “You’ll have to excuse me for a moment, Lady Proudmoore. It seems I am needed elsewhere, but I leave you in the most capable of hands.”

They certainly looked it…

Jaina tore her eyes from the Ranger-General’s gloves and curtsied for the Prince — who, with a flourish of his cape, turned and strode away, leaving the two women alone.

 

Oh no. What was she going to _say?_

 

The Ranger-General watched Kael’thas go. When she turned back to Jaina, it was with a mischievous smirk.

“Quite the _orator,_ isn’t he?”

Oh, she practically _glowed_ in the mage-light…

Wait, did she just…?

Jaina felt a matching smirk tug at her lips. “He...” She took a breath. “Yes, quite.”

And winced at her own words.

_Tides take me now._

The Ranger-General stepped closer, still at a respectful distance, but close enough that her lowered voice still reached Jaina’s ears. “Forgive me if I misread that, Lady Proudmoore, but...”

 _I wonder…_ “Please,” she curtsied, and for the first time that night smiled openly and honestly. “Lady Proudmoore is my mother. Call me Jaina.”

The Ranger-General’s ears moved then, as if relaxing, but Jaina didn’t want to assume…

“Jaina.”

 

Oh. Yes, that was _nice._

 

“His Highness will be returning soon.”

Her face fell before she could conceal it — and the Ranger-General _laughed,_ husky and melodic, baring white teeth and sharp fangs. As well as her long, elegant neck.

The blush had reached Jaina’s chest.

“As I suspected.” Those silver eyes sparkled in the light. “Well then, Jaina, would you like to dance? Perhaps to the opposite side of the crowd?”

“Oh. You—” Jaina blinked. “Lady Windrunner…”

The elf tilted her head slightly, long ears askew.

“Is Magister…” Jaina trailed off.

“Umbric speaking with the Gilnean Ambassador?”

“Is he?”

“Perhaps.” That rakish smirk returned. “I wouldn’t know.”

For a moment Jaina was taken aback by her audacity — but the gratitude was stronger.

“Oh, _thank you.”_

The Ranger-General schooled her expression into a vision of noble benevolence, even as her eyes still shone with mischief. “Think nothing of it.” Then, offering one slender, leather-gloved hand palm up, she asked: “Shall we?”

“Oh...” Jaina glanced towards the center of the room, where over a dozen well-dressed nobles were stepping and spinning in synchrony… “I’m afraid I’m not a very good dancer.”

The Ranger-General retracted her hand without protest.

Which was... _refreshing._

“Well then, Jaina, how might I make this evening more bearable for you?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that...”

“I know.” There was no mischief, now. Her gaze was earnest, her smile soft.

It was so _much._

Jaina looked away, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Unless you happen to have a copy of _Dath’Remar’s Treatise on Arcane Physics_ with you, I’m afraid I’ll just have to grin and bear it.”

The Ranger-General’s ears moved again, lifting slightly, and Jaina was far too tipsy and flustered to interpret. She seemed to consider for a moment, silver eyes scanning the room with smooth efficiency. Jaina could picture her out in the wilds, surveying the land from some high bough, clad in battle-worn armor…

“This _is_ Dalaran,” she seemed to conclude. “There must be a bookcase nearby.”

She again met Jaina’s eye, and Jaina could not for the life of her look away even as it lingered-- “I wager between the two of us, it shouldn’t be terribly difficult to find. If that interests you, of course.”

 

 **_You_ ** _interest me._

 

“I…” She swallowed, mouth dry. “Yes, I’d quite like that.”

And at that the Ranger-General stepped closer and turned, offering her arm.

No strict expectation, no pressure.

Just an offer.

One Jaina gladly accepted.

She smelled of leather and cedarwood.

 

Side by side, they wove through the crowd until they found a carpeted staircase, and with a glance at each other stole casually up it. The Ranger-General’s arm was _thick_ beneath her uniform, solid as her shoulders looked and unyieldingly steady when Jaina stumbled on the last few steps.

Once she had found her feet, the ranger pulled away to walk beside her. Jaina immediately missed the strong warmth of her, even despite the heat blooming in her chest…

She was just being gracious. Proper. That was why she hadn’t asked Jaina to use her first name. And not once had she even glanced at Jaina’s décolletage, which was _refreshing,_ but… disappointing.

_Oh, stop being ridiculous._

_I’m here as a representative of Kul Tiras, not an eligible bachelorette._

She did her best to focus on the task at hand.

Gilded halls stretched before them, bedecked with paintings and tapestries. Tall windows looked out onto the city and the stars above, ethereal curtains of purple and silver…

The wine flowed through Jaina, softening the world, and with the Ranger-General’s steadfast presence and entrancing voice…

Questions swirled in Jaina’s mind, too improper to ask -- how long had she lived? And through what adventures, what great battles and triumphs? Was it true that in Quel’thalas, women were free to be with women and men with men?

 

_May I call you Sylvanas?_

 

Jaina could not say how long it had been searching. They came upon a door of smooth, dark wood, plain among the lavish furnishings.

It had no handle.

Jaina stepped forward and pressed her palm against it. Closed her eyes… and found a complex knot of magic within.

It didn’t take her very long to untie.

With a soft pulse of violet, the door swung inwards, revealing a moonlit study — its walls covered in bookshelves.

She looked over her shoulder with a pleased laugh, to find the Ranger-General regarding her with unguarded surprise.

The heat returned to Jaina’s face. “What?” She asked. “It wasn’t _that_ secure.”

The Ranger-General smiled, one eyebrow arching amusedly. “I’m an elf, Jaina.”

“And _I’m_ apprenticed to an archmage.” She tried to feign haughtiness, but couldn’t keep the smirk off her lips. Blushing furiously, she turned and strode into the study.

The cold, still air was almost startling, but Jaina had found her prize, and would not be deterred. She stepped to the first bookshelf, and ran her her fingers over the spines, reading complex titles in Common, Thalassian, and even _Dwarven!_

It was like finding a hidden treasure. It was so much better than the pageantry below. it was…

 

... _wrong._  

It hadn’t happened like this.

 

This was the wrong study, in the wrong building, and the air never had that…

...that _pressure_ to it.

The door slammed shut behind her. Jaina jolted, turned…

“Lady Windrunner? What…”

The ranger stood leaning back against the door, upper body in shadow, strong arms crossed over her chest… and she was watching Jaina with absolutely no expression.

“Is… is everything all right?”

For a moment, the elf said nothing. She wasn’t blinking, why wasn’t she--

“Yes…” Her voice was sweet.  _Too_ sweet. “Everything is _perfect,_ Jaina.”

\--she’d never said her name like that she’d never _looked_ at her like that--

She shrugged forward off the door and sauntered toward Jaina with predatory grace.

Jaina backed away, books pressing into her shoulder blades, her breath misting in the freezing study--

Sylvanas stepped into a beam of moonlight, and Jaina’s heart stuttered in her chest.

Her skin was pallid.

Her kohl ran like black tears, and her _eyes--_

Her eyes were smoldering, _burning_ red. 

“No!" 

The Banshee grinned cruelly, baring long fangs, colorless gums, her voice two-toned and taunting and wrong--

_“Yes.”_

It surged forward, cold claws seizing the sides of Jaina’s head and slamming her back against the bookcase, black smoke swirling around them, leeching the strength from Jaina’s limbs--

_“Sweet, foolish girl… ”_

Those claws sunk into her neck, her cheeks, tearing her skin-- 

 

 _“Did you_ **_trust_ ** _me?”_

  

Jaina lurched awake with a violent gasp.

 

Her side ached, her head ached, her legs and hips and back ached--

There was something in her ears. Something itchy.

… and something smelled _divine._ Savory and sweet.

Her stomach was _empty,_ and there was a constricting pressure around her torso…

Overwhelmed by the sudden rush of sensation, Jaina blinked blearily. It was _bright,_ but not beach-bright…

Leaves and branches swayed far above her, tinting the light a soft green. The humidity clung to her, but the heat was tolerable.

Partially due to that cold, silent-scream aura emanating from nearby.

 

Oh.

 

“Fuck,” she groaned.

 

A reply came, muffled by whatever was in her ears. Jaina took a deep breath, and turned her head.

Her staff lay beside her.

Beyond it, Sylvanas --no, the _Banshee Queen--_ kneeled a few paces to her right, fully armored… save for her right shoulder, which was bare. And sculpted.

Her hood — no, her entire _cloak_ was missing, baring her strong jaw and her pale, wispy hair, which was gathered into a messy topknot. Ghostly in the light.

Beside her, the missing pauldron was balanced skull side down on four pieces of bamboo that had been buried at an angle in the muddy ground. A small fire crackled beneath it, and steam rose from its concavity.

On the Banshee’s other side was a pile of crab shells and coconut husks.

What…?

With a grunt of effort, Jaina curled one leaden arm, fingers feeling for her ear…

 

**“Don’t.”**

Jaina twitched in surprise. Even from a yard away, she had felt the word in her sternum.

 

 **“They are poultices.”** The Banshee’s tone was dispassionate, but passed straight through the blockage in Jaina’s ears. **“To prevent infection, and accelerate healing. Don’t touch them.”**

With that she looked away, disinterested, and busied herself with something Jaina could not see… and a moment later turned back holding half a coconut.

With her other arm she reached under her steaming pauldron, ignoring the flames that licked at her gauntlet to lift off of the fire. Striated muscle flexed beneath ash-blue skin.

She tipped her macabre cook pot, pouring steaming white liquid into the makeshift bowl.

Then she set it back on the fire, and stood.

**“You will need to sit up for this.”**

Her smoldering gaze flicked past Jaina, to a thick section of tree-trunk that appeared to have been _mauled_ on both ends. The pale wood was jagged, the bark scored with deep claw-marks. Four parallel, each time.

Another _statement?_

Jaina swallowed her spite and tried to sit up — only to gasp and fall back as the pain in her ribs stole her breath. Her stomach muscles burned with fatigue.

Wordless, the Banshee strode forward, purple-and-silver sabatons cutting into the soft earth, towering over Jaina—

“Stop.” Jaina snapped. “I can do it.”

The elf raised one pale brow, unimpressed. **“Yes, just as you said before near-fatally depleting your mana.”**

Jaina almost tried again, just out of spite. The urge to fight and the urge to flee warred in her chest.

And neither was _necessary_ , she _knew_ that, but after that… impossibly _lucid_ dream…

She glanced at the those clawed gauntlets, and had to suppress a shiver.

It didn’t go unnoticed. The Banshee regarded her a moment longer, gaze unreadable, and then crouched gracefully at Jaina’s feet. Set the bowl on the ground. Reached for the buckles of one gauntlet — so she could touch Jaina with those cold, dead fingers instead.

“Don’t bother,” she said. “It’s fine.”

The Banshee went still, gaze fixed on the buckles, for just long enough that cold dread settled in Jaina’s chest.

But she said nothing. Just stood, expressionless, and planted her sabatons on either side of Jaina’s hips.

The urge to recoil _twitched_ through her. She clenched her jaw, glaring up into those blood-red eyes, _daring_ the Banshee to smirk, to mock her…

But she didn’t.

Without preamble, she crouched over Jaina and reached those clawed gauntlets under her arms — and Jaina couldn’t suppress the flinch.

 

Because at some point since she was last conscious, the Banshee had **_stripped_ ** her down to her trousers and undershirt.

 

Cold, hard steel pressed against sensitive flesh, long fingers closing around her upper torso and slowly but firmly lifting it from the ground and dragging her back until her shoulder-blades met the hard surface of the log.

Jaina was _pinned_ beneath it and the Banshee, body _exposed,_ heart thudding in her chest as the scent of cold steel and something floral and _leather_ wafted…

 

“How do your ribs feel?”

 

“Fine,” Jaina choked out.

 

And just like that, the Banshee pulled away. Crouched again at her feet, scooped up the bowl, and placed it in Jaina’s lap in one smooth movement.

Savory-sweet steam wafted over her face. Coconut milk and crab meat swirled before her, flecked with green herbs…

Her mouth watered.

She glanced back up at the Banshee — who was already back at the fire, lifting the pauldron off of it and stomping on the flames.

Jaina blinked.

Her demeanor was such a sudden change from both that cruel, taunting shadow in the night and the gallant ranger in Jaina’s dream that she was too _unnerved_ to be relieved.

 

**“Let it cool. I’d rather not have ‘arcane rebound from allowing the Lord Admiral to burn her tongue’ as my latest cause of death.”**

 

There it was.

 

Jaina glowered at her, but the Banshee wasn’t looking, instead running a scrap of purple cloth over the blade of her saber.

Wait…

Jaina looked down at herself, and immediately flushed.

 

Her nipples were practically poking through the thin, damp material of her undershirt.

 

 _Hostile territory,_  she told herself. _I wasn’t worried about impropriety on Hyjal._

Modesty was as much an enemy as regret, she _knew_ that… she just felt exposed. In front of the least comfortable person to be exposed around.

She did her best to swallow the feeling.

Just below her breasts, the purple fabric of Sylvanas’ cloak had been wrapped tight around her torso, and she could feel something cool and damp pressing against her tender ribs beneath…

_Fuck._

Jaina squeezed her eyes shut.

Not Sylvanas'. The _Banshee’s_ cloak.

Tides, that memory was so _vivid._

But it hadn't  _happened_ like that. 

They'd never found any study, any bookcases. They'd ended up exploring the halls above the ballroom, caught up in conversation -- Sylvanas listening eagerly to Jaina's disjointed academic ramblings and _engaging_ with her despite not understanding half of it, but recalling practical examples of the things Jaina was studying from her many battles, which led into  _Sylvanas_ going on and Jaina listening... 

_Stop it, Jaina. You don't need this right now._

Fragments of some text about cumulative arcane attunement affecting the subconscious flitted through her mind.

It did nothing to help her unease. Her heart was still beating too fast.

 

Not even the good times were safe from the Banshee Queen, it seemed. 

 

For that was what she _was,_ now.

Jaina opened her eyes and looked across the campsite, to where the undead elf had sheathed her saber and was cleaning her gauntlets.

She took in the ash-blue skin, the ghostly hair, the burning red eyes, and focused on that _pressure_ in the air, just barely there, but…

Not Sylvanas. Not anymore.

Sylvanas Windrunner would never have invaded the territory of her sister people without provocation, would never have _butchered_ their champion and razed their city to ash. She would never have developed a weapon like the Blight, would never have used it against _her own soldiers._  She would never raise the un-consenting dead, would never raise _Derek_ just to _violate_ his free will like Arthas had done to hers--

Jaina looked back down at the bowl in her lap.

This was _not_ Sylvanas Windrunner.

It was merely her desecrated corpse being _ridden_ by what remained of her soul after Arthas had _weaponized_ it. Arthas who had no use for kindness or compassion or honor _,_ and so had torn them from her, leaving only ruthless cunning and anguish and _rage_ at the living…

That was the only explanation for her deeds.

This was not Sylvanas Windrunner, _could_ not be her.

It was a weapon in the shape of a woman, and Jaina could not afford to forget that.

 

_It._

Tides, she sounded like _father._

 

The realization hit her in the gut, and for a long moment she just stared at her soup, feeling slightly ill... 

 _No. Father was talking about whole, living people who were working to_ **_heal_ ** _themselves from what they’d been manipulated into doing._

_It’s not the same._

 

So why did thinking about it make her feel so… _hollowed out?_

 

Her stomach rumbled.

Carefully, she picked up the bowl. It was warm in her hands. She blew at the dissipating steam, and took a sip.

And almost moaned.

It was _delicious._ Rich and creamy and salty-sweet, full of light and tender lumps of crab meat that all but melted on her tongue…

Tides, she was _starving._

She drank it down in greedy, slurping gulps.

And then it was gone.

She looked up toward the makeshift pot -- and froze.

 

The Banshee was watching her.

 

She was crouched over the steaming pauldron, half-facing Jaina, steel-encased elbows braced on her armored legs and claws interlaced.

Her face betrayed nothing… but her ears were flat against the sides of her head.

Jaina held her gaze. Held herself still, schooled her expression into angry resolve… and realized why that undead _stillness_ unnerved her so much.

It wasn’t just the movements that should have been there, the subtle rise and fall of a breathing chest, the constant movement of pupils -- it was how much she looked like that giant cat, still because it was waiting to pounce.

The Banshee looked away. Picked up her pauldron. Walked back over to Jaina and kneeled beside her to refill the makeshift bowl…

And Jaina’s chest went tight.

 

She still had those same earrings.

 

This time she didn’t walk away again. Instead she rose and sat on the log, the elegant armor plates of her thigh level with Jaina’s neck.

Only an arm’s length between them.

To think there was a time when this would have made Jaina’s heart race with something other than fear or frustration…

She drank her soup, glowering at nothing in particular. Beside her, the Banshee sat still and silent.

 

Overall, she felt… _much_ better than she had. The sting in her ears and pounding in her head had shrunk to dull aches, the pain in her side was less sharp, her throat no longer felt like a desert, and her stomach was increasingly full.

She was just still incredibly tired.

At least the Pact was working as intended. The Banshee had saved her life.

_This is so fucking strange._

Jaina set her bowl down, and looked at her right hand.

Gone was the cut she had made. In its place was a slight, raised scar that bisected her palm and ran around to the back of her hand, where it curved down and bisected _itself_ before wrapping around her wrist, two times.

 _This_ was why the Banshee was healing and feeding her. Simple, cold self-interest.

Jaina closed her hand into a fist.

The heat of the soup in her belly was beginning to make her sweat.

“How long was I unconscious?”

 

“Two and a half days.”

 

Fuck. She’d only needed a day and night, after Zuldazar…

It really _had_ almost killed her.

She didn’t know how to feel about that.

“The Pact requires a small but steady flow of mana to sustain itself,” said the Banshee. “It delayed your recovery.”

That made… wait.

She had known the final incantation.

That was oddly specific knowledge to retain through death and spiritual mutilation.

Jaina filed that away for later.

“Where are we?” She asked.

“On an island somewhere between Zandalar and Pandaria.”

That made her look at the Banshee, who only glanced at her.

“How do you know that?”

“The terrain is similar to areas of the Jade Forest. The flora bears more resemblance to that of Zuldazar. Drink.”

Jaina had the sudden and powerful urge to pour her soup into the dirt.

She resisted it. Drank. Scooped more out of the pauldron.

She didn’t look to see if the Banshee was watching with… what? Anger? Envy?

SI:7 reported that she had more control over her body than any of the other Forsaken.  But she had allegedly never been seen to eat or drink.

 

She probably couldn’t taste anything.

 

Jaina’s heart ached.

_Tides damn it._

She clenched her jaw. Tried to drown that pain with frustration at her abysmal luck, _anger_ at Azshara for drowning her crew or at the _Banshee_ for being her only hope... 

But she was so _tired._

Soon the soup was gone. All that remained were small, unfamiliar leaves plastered to the bottom of the ‘pot.’ Jaina tossed the coconut half into it.

 

She needed to piss.

 _Rather die than ask her for help with_ **_that._ **

 

She waited until the Banshee picked up her pauldron and stepped away, toward the still-smoking firepit. Then she bent her legs and drew them in toward her chest, planted her right hand in the muddy leaves beside her, and curled towards it, hissing at the twinge in her ribs.

Immediately, the Banshee looked back over her bare shoulder, and turned to help.

“Ohhh, no.” Jaina shot her a warning glare. “You stay where you are.”

The Banshee turned to face her fully, one hand on her cocked hip, head tilted in… exasperation?

Jaina ignored her. With a gasp, she rolled onto her knees, hands braced against the log. Planted one foot in the dirt. Rose.

Her side throbbed, but not nearly as sharply as it had before.

Standing there, breathing heavily, she looked back up at the Banshee... who had not moved. She simply watched Jaina, purple lips curved into the slightest frown, the glow of her eyes dimmed to a faint flicker.

Even her whisker-like elven eyebrows looked thinner than they had in life.

One of them arched questioningly.

Jaina tore her gaze away and picked up her staff. Then she walked unsteadily towards where the trees seemed closer together, the spaces between them filled with thick bamboo.

“I’ll be back,” She muttered.

 

The Banshee said nothing.

 

 

*****

 

 

Only once she was beyond the reach of that cold aura did Jaina feel like she could breathe freely again.

 _Fuck_ it was hot. Now that she was hiking with a belly full of soup, the shade did little to shield her from it. It wasn’t long before sweat beaded on her brow and upper lip, and her trousers felt thick and constricting, and her undershirt had begun to stick.

...which just reminded her that the Banshee had _stripped her while she slept._

She’d done it to assess her wounds and to help with the heat, but _still._

The thought of those cold fingers on her naked ribcage…

Jaina shivered.

Another thing to be angry about once she had the energy again.

 

To think the first person to undress her in _years_ was _another_ warchief of the Horde…

 

Fuck.

 _That is the absolute_ **_last_ ** _thing I need to be thinking about right now. It was_ **_one time!_ **

It was too late.

Heat pulsed through her core.

Jaina growled at her own loneliness and stomped around a small bamboo grove. Leaned her staff against a trunk.

 

 

As it turned out, the _current_ Warchief removing her skirts actually made things a lot easier.

Tying the drawstrings of her trousers back up, Jaina took a deep breath, and surveyed her surroundings. The jungle looked just as foreign and wild as ever, vine-wrapped trunks, vibrantly green leaves and large yellow seed-pods blooming all around… but now that Syl-- the _Banshee_ had pointed it out, she could already several types of fern and tree that the 7th Legion’s chroniclers had documented in Zuldazar.

_Somewhere between Zandalar and Pandaria…_

Jaina felt the slightest bit of tension lift off of her.

She could _work_ with that. It would take more than a bit of stargazing, and she’d need to regain more strength before she could search for leylines, but it was a solid start.

She would be free of this place.

Free of the _Banshee._

And again that damned _ache_ in her chest. Not for the Warchief, she told herself, but for the ranger she’d been.

 

 _She’s gone, you_ **_know_ ** _she’s gone. There’s nothing left to negotiate with. The undead can’t_ **_heal._ **

 

She sighed. Wiped the sweat from her brow.

The sooner she was away from that perpetually tear-stained face, the better.

 

A bright orange bird flitted through the humid air overhead, warbling serenely.

Now that she didn’t feel half-dead, it was actually… sort of _beautiful,_ here.

She couldn’t even see the forest floor, so thick and lush was the undergrowth. Here and there shafts of sunlight fell through gaps in the canopy, making bright splotches bob over wet leaves.

Away from the Banshee’s aura, it was _louder,_ bird calls echoing in the distance…

 

Something scurried through the ferns somewhere to her right.

 

Jaina nearly jumped out of her skin, free hand reflexively conjuring frostfire. That huge, ebon tiger-thing filled her mind, all huge paws and dagger-claws and knife-teeth…

Wait.

She looked down at her hand, and laughed.

It was small, it was sputtering, and she could feel it beginning to exhaust her, but her magic was _there,_ cool and soothing.

She waited for a beat, listening for more movement. When none came, she let the frostfire fizzle out, and started back the way she’d come.

 

 

Two and a half days since she’d passed out. Longer since the storm.

By now her lack of correspondence would have raised alarm in Boralus and Stormwind. If search parties hadn’t already embarked, they would soon -- ships and sailors that could be contributing to the war effort, instead searching in vain. This place was almost certainly concealed somehow.

She’d need to be at full strength to engage with whatever sort of cage Azshara had devised.

Again, something moved quickly through the undergrowth nearby.

She went still, gripping her staff…

 _There._ With a flick of her wrist, she sent a wave of frost out several meters in all directions.

It made her a bit dizzy.

And _still_ the undergrowth moved.

What could…

Then she saw it, between the wide leaves -- the segmented legs, the pincers…

_What is a crab doing this far from--_

...the glowing red eyes.

 

“...oh, you nosy _bitch._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hc Jaina as 18-19 when she first met Sylvanas. Def already knew she was into ladies, but hadn't acted on it. 
> 
> Jaina/Go'el was prolly post-Hyjal "holy shit we're alive" sex and not necessarily part of an affair. 
> 
> Also all elves are gay sorry I don't make the rules
> 
> We're getting to the juicy part <3


	6. Through a Glass Darkly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things boil over, and the author has no idea what she's doing. 
> 
> Also, boar gore.

 

The war effort was in capable hands.

The Zandalari were pledged to the Horde, their warships keeping supply lines safe from the Kul Tiran navy.

Her generals were experienced veterans who knew their tasks.

And Lor’themar knew her reasoning. Her strategies. Her plans. He would protect the Horde in her absence.

Everything was handled.

She just had to get off this blasted _island_ before Saurfang’s traitorous followers _tried_ something.

 

Sylvanas dropped the crab and coconut shells in the undergrowth a half-league from camp.

Flimsy things. Broken so easily beneath her grip, no match for the magic that held her muscles and tendons and bones together.

The magic that made it… _difficult_ to hunt here.

The jungle was too thick. Every living creature fled from the wrongness of her presence long before she could find a line of sight.

She could sense their presences as well, tiny points of warmth radiating through the numbness, but not nearly acutely enough to hit with an arrow. Not without seeing them.

So far she’d been unable to hit anything.

She heard high branches creaking nearby, and started towards then, prowling silently over the moss-covered ground toward a nearby grove of towering Kapok trees. As she drew near, the ground began to slope upwards, covered in thick ferns that would rustle a warning to her prey.

She paused, crouched low and utterly silent.

Still those high branches creaked, and now Sylvanas could feel the faint, distant heat of living bodies, higher up…

She mapped the strongest boughs around her with a glance, kneeled, and removed her gauntlets. Then she leapt a few meters to the nearest handhold, bare hands next to silent on the bark, and swung. Within moments she was crouched on a high branch, shrouded by a wall of leaves, surveying the grove.

And _finally_ setting eyes on something.

Perhaps five hundred meters into the grove stood a Kapok easily twice the height of her own perch, and in its lowest branches sat and hung a group of small primates, grooming each other and chirping. Creeping forward on her branch, Sylvanas took the bow from her back and nocked an arrow. Fixed her gaze on the largest primate. Drew.

Immediately, the creatures let out panicked trills and began to swing away frantically.

 

...because of course they did. Her bow was made for _her_ . It required her unholy strength to draw -- so when she did, the magic in her must have… _flared,_ somehow.

Alerted her quarry at five hundred meters.

She stowed her arrow and bow, frustrated.

 

For now, bewitched crustaceans would have to suffice. And those large red-and-green fruits she had found further inland… though at the moment she was a bit less than eager to watch Proudmoore savor another tropical delicacy.

_Proudmoore._

The very human who had **_stolen_ ** the Undercity from her -- who had blasted through all her preparations, rendered all those sacrifices _null--_

\--and Sylvanas had to _take care of her_ to have any hope of escape.

Her jaw creaked. Black mist spilled from her skin, flowed from her armor--

_Not now._

_Too close to camp._

She focused on her body, on saturating its muscles and tendons. Forced herself back into it.

Leapt from the canopy.

 

She could feel her many-legged minions now, all but one scuttling back toward the camp in a wide circle around their charge. The straggler was undamaged, but unable to move.

Frozen.

Sylvanas smirked as she swung between branches, already imagining the scowl on Proudmoore’s pretty face, the icy blue of her narrowed eyes only barely concealing the ironically ardent _fury_ within as her heart pumped hot blood into her cheeks…

 

Once they had seen this pact to its completion, the first chance she got, Sylvanas was going to bury her fangs in that lovely neck and _**drink**. _

 

She landed in a crouch near her gauntlets, and began buckling them back on.

On a whim, she closed her eyes and reached out along the shadowy filaments binding the crab carcasses to her will. She chose the one in front, and focused on its tiny, rudimentary brain, searching for the visual cortex…

And failed.

Its nervous system was… _rigged_ differently from the birds and beasts she usually scryed through. It was like trying to make sense of an over-complicated foreign knot. She could feel its general location, she could move its limbs, she just couldn’t _see_.

Her lip twitched in frustration.

Had she really _never_ tried to scry through an arthropod before?

This was an inexcusable oversight. She could have, _should_ have practiced on the abundant, oversized insect life of Durotar -- but no. She had gone straight for the more familiar creatures.

_Foolish._

But unhelpful to obsess about, at the moment.

_Later. There are plenty of birds here, anyway._

And plenty more terrain to scout. While Proudmoore slept she had walked the circumference of the island, and scouted inland far enough to find streams and fruit trees from which the human could _eat_ and _drink_ , could revel in the flavors and textures…

_Scouting._

_More scouting to do._

 

Sylvanas had been undead for thirteen years. Had toured Orgrimmar, had attended banquets with the living, had walked among the sleeping and the dying…

She was not easily shaken.

But watching over Proudmoore for _two and a half days…_ cleaning and dressing her wounds, carrying her warm body to safety, watching her sleep and breathe and drink and eat, watching her face flush with rushing blood, her heart beating strongly…

 

...all for her to prefer sharp steel gauntlets to Sylvanas’ cold, dead hands.

 

These hands that once nurtured and created and _loved,_ reduced to _weapons._

 

Sylvanas’ heart clenched in her chest, just once, so sudden and _uncomfortable_ that her spirit _recoiled_ from it. Black mist boiled out of her, shriveling all it touched into dead grey husks -- and then Sylvanas was looking down at the back of her own head as her body slumped forward onto the ground.

Limp.

 

A puppet with its strings cut.

 

With a snarl, she dove back into it, pouring herself into every cold inch of flesh, and lurched to her feet. Clenched her fists until knuckles cracked and metal creaked _,_ and felt no exertion, no pain. She breathed in, and felt the air whistle out of her abdomen--

Out of the _scar._

Sylvanas’ body seized up.

She could _feel_ the sword in her so cold so cold so cold and _tearing everywhere_ so-- so he could-- could force her to--

\--to--

**_I will break your spirit as I broke your body_ **

_\--_ **_all_ ** _of them--_

_\-- Clea Kelmarin Anya Velonara Nathanos Kalira--_

Her knees hit the ground.

_Alleria_

_Vereesa_

**_Forgive me._ **

 

A wail of anguish built deep in her chest, resonating through her every bone, vibrating her teeth as she clenched them to contain it. Tears of congealed black blood oozed from her eyes, smearing her vision--

\--and the despair ignited into seething rage.

 

Thirteen years of leading her people through rejection and revulsion and prejudice and endless war, and _Jaina Proudmoore_ does this to her with a few _words?_

With a roar she _burst_ off the ground, into the high boughs, clawing and tearing through the canopy, flying inland.

Branches shattered on her armor, tore at her face, and she welcomed it, basked in each burst of pain and _hated_ herself for it--

\--wildlife scattered in all directions--

**_There._ **

A boar, massive and wild, bristles black and tusks long--

She hit it like a cannonball and slammed it into a thick tree-trunk, _snapping_ something deep inside of it. Blood burst from its nostrils and its squealing mouth and Sylvanas surged forward, sank her claws deep into its side and _tore_ it open, exposing yellow fat and red muscle and white bone and _reveled_  in its convulsions and the hot, _living_ blood that splattered her armor, her face--

She found its neck and gripped it, crushing all of the tubes and muscles and vertebrae together--

Then, elbow-deep in the beast, she drained it.

Living flesh paled and shrank over quickly-dwindling muscles. Bones went brittle, cracked and shattered. Its eyes went blind and sank into its sockets, skin tight against its skull, lips shriveling back over its gums and all that _life_ poured into her, stolen and tainted and _foul--_

Sylvanas tore the husk apart, and **_SCREAMED._ **

At Arthas.

What he did to her.

What he forced her to do.

 

At herself.

For failing.

For still _hurting._

At her cold puppet body.

 

At Alleria

Vereesa.

The _idiots_ they allied with.

 

Azshara.

 

**_Proudmoore._ **

 

 

*****

 

 

Hm.

Quite a lot of blood.

Perhaps she should leave it there. Smeared over her armor and face. Remind Proudmoore who she’s dealing with.

The memory of the _fear_ in those blue eyes immediately soured what little pleasure that thought gave her.

\--those eyes that had looked at her in wonder—

No.

Better not to.

Terrorizing the woman would just make this more difficult than it needed to be.

To water, then.

 

*****

 

The walk back to camp took long enough for Sylvanas to calm herself.

Mostly.

Draining living creatures didn’t just dull the hollowness inside her -- it let her _feel_. The contraction of her muscles, the pressure of her armor around her, the comforting weight of the bow on her back, the sword on her hip…

But after consuming a beast of the boar’s size, other things were… _clearer._

The smell of mud, rotting leaves, clean water, the leather of her armor, the faintest traces of iron, the brilliant greens of the jungle around her, the bright white and yellow flowers, the red fruit, the chirps and warbles and hoots and caws and the constant rustle of a million leaves and branches and--

She stopped. Closed her eyes.

And wished suddenly and desperately and with a terrible phantom _pain_ that she could just take a _breath._

Instead she withdrew herself from what remained of her sensory organs. Immediately, the cacophony faded.

And she _missed it._

Her spirit _twisted_ a bit, at that.

Slowly, she let herself spread out again, but stayed carefully away from her nose and the surface of her skin.

The concentration it took was… less that ideal.

But it was necessary, at least for the next few hours.

She wove through the smaller, sparser trees and into the small clearing where she’d made their camp, not bothering to avoid Proudmoore’s little proximity alarms.

As she stepped through one of the faint violet beams, Proudmoore twitched. She sat on the leafy ground, slumped against the log Sylvanas had carried over from inland, bare arms and shoulders pale in the soft green light. Her staff was propped up next to her.

She must have felt Sylvanas’ magic, for she blinked awake slowly, blue eyes refocusing.

Sylvanas walked past her, surveying their immediate surroundings for the best spot to construct some shelter. Bamboo, perhaps, tied in a grid…

 

Hm. Proudmoore’s pulse was quickening.

 

Sylvanas let a single note of power bleed into her voice, to bypass the poultices in Proudmoore's ears. 

**“Don’t get up on my account, Lord Admiral. At least, not until you’ve recuperated from the terrible effort of freezing that single crab.”**

“How does watching me _relieve myself_ serve the Pact??”

She considered how to answer that. Briefly. To be overestimated had its advantages. Fewer than being underestimated, but still…

**“Everything in my power to ensure your wellbeing. You set the terms.”**

 

“So even oath-bound, you are _honorless._ ”

 

Sylvanas glanced over her shoulder -- and found her gaze lingering. Proudmoore had risen to sit atop the log, hand and forearm curled around her staff, surprisingly defined muscles flexing to balance it upright. Wisps of white hair stuck to the sweat on her sunburnt face, and in contrast to the redness, the stormy sea-blue of her glaring eyes was…

Sylvanas wished for breath. **“Do you consider yourself _swordless?”_**

Proudmoore blinked, momentarily unguarded. But then that fierce, _determined_ look slid into place.

 

The same she’d worn as she _invaded_ Sylvanas’ throne room.

 

“So you consider _decency_ a _tool?”_

 

So she wanted a fight, did she? To assert her righteousness, to feel _vindicated?_

So be it.

Sylvanas put on a smirk and turned to face her.

 

**“Can it be? Has the Alliance’s most passionate diplomat finally met a mind with which she cannot sympathize?”**

 

Proudmoore’s glare did not falter, but Sylvanas heard her heart _thud_ heavily. Heard the breath rush out of her… almost as if struck.

Interesting.

But then her jaw flexed, as did her arm as she gripped her staff in rage. “The time for diplomacy has passed. _You_ saw to that, and I will not play your games.”

 **“** **_I_ ** **saw to that?”**

“Oh good, your ears still work.”

A red haze began to creep over Sylvanas’ vision. **“I suppose I should be relieved that you’re simply ignorant, rather than foolish.”**

“Excuse me?”

 **“Clearly your allies have withheld things from you.”** She began to prowl around the firepit opposite the mage, never once blinking. **“The time for diplomacy** **_passed_ ** **the moment Greymane diverted hundreds of soldiers from the fight against the Legion to pursue a vendetta against me.”**

Proudmoore blinked in surprise.

 **“The time for diplomacy** **_passed_ ** **when the boy-king plotted to** **_usurp_ ** **me.”**

Her glare returned, harder and colder.

 **“The only** **_game_ ** **afoot here is the false righteousness of the Alliance, and I will do whatever it takes to defend my people from its appetites.”**

“False--” Proudmoore’s eyes widened incredulously. “After everything the Horde has done, you accuse us of _false righteousness_ for opposing you?” 

**“After everything the Horde has done, could** **_you_ ** **ever forgive us?”**

 

For a moment, Proudmoore just stared. Her knuckles went pale around her staff. When she next spoke, her voice was low and _rough_ in Sylvanas’ over-sensitive ears.

 

“Choose your next words carefully, _Banshee_.”

 

Sylvanas steeled herself. **“There will always be an element within the Alliance that cannot forgive, cannot forget, just** **_waiting_ ** **for an opportunity to dismantle the Horde and imprison or enslave those of us you don’t** **_slaughter_ ** **. War was inevitable. I simply chose to begin it on terms that favor my people.”**

“Yet you wage it in ways that _divide_ and _endanger_ your people!”

Sylvanas stopped beside the firepit and narrowed her eyes. **“Tell me something, Lady Proudmoore. If you had known what Hellscream intended for--”**

 

 _“Don’t.”_ Violet flickered in Proudmoore’s eyes. Icy mist formed in the air around clenched fists.

 

Sylvanas suppressed the urge to bare her fangs and advanced, step after deliberate step, toward the archmage.

 **“Is there** **_anything_ ** **you would not have done to prevent it?”**

 

Instantly, a wave of frost pulsed out from Proudmoore’s boots, freezing the ground in all directions.

Slowly, lean muscles of her arm and shoulder and chest and stomach flexing, staff crackling with power, she stood.

 

“You _dare_ invoke Theramore? You who _butchered_ the Kal’dorei unprovoked, who _blighted and raised your own troops?”_

 

**“Did your parents neglect to--”**

“Stop **_fucking doing that_ ** with your voice!!”

 

Sylvanas blinked. **“Excuse me?”**

 

\--when had she last blinked?--

 

Glaring icy murder, Proudmoore marched forward until those furious, storm-blue eyes were barely an arm’s length away. “You heard me,” she spat.

 

Even wreathed in frost, the heat emanating from her was _torturous,_ her heart _thudding_ within her barely-covered chest--

The metal of Sylvanas’ gauntlets creaked.

“I was _asking,”_ she lilted, “If your dear parents neglected to teach you basic strategy.”

“Do _not_. Mention. My family.”

Sylvanas chose not to pull that thread at the moment. “Our lines were collapsing rapidly, with the only point of egress too narrow to provide a sufficient retreat. Those _warriors_ you pretend to care so much for were already lost. I maximized the fruits of their sacrifice.”

“You killed them in the most agonizing way possible and _raised them!!”_

“I cannot bind soul to corpse en masse unaided -- I raised only their bodies.”

“You--!” Proudmoore ground her teeth. “And my **_brother?”_ **

“Am I free to discuss your family now, then?”

“How can you _possibly_ rationalize what you planned to do to him?” Disgust twisted her rage-tightened face. “How is forcing his soul back into his corpse and _torturing him into a weapon_ ** _any_** _different from what_ _Arthas did to you??”_

 

Sylvanas’ spirit _writhed._

Black mist burst from her body, writhing like a nest of injured snakes, startling Proudmoore back wide-eyed, frostfire igniting in her free hand--

 

 **_“You know nothing of what Arthas did to me.”_ **Sylvanas’ bones vibrated with barely contained fury.

 

Proudmoore’s heart beat fast, too fast, the fear plain on her face--

_Her ears-- already hurt already fragile--_

 

 **_“You--_ ** _”_ Sylvanas grit her teeth. Tried again. _“You know_ **_nothing_ ** _of torture_ **_._ ** _I have_ **_never_ ** _\--_ **_will never_ ** _violate a soul like that.”_

Confusion stole into the human’s expression.

Damn it.

This was _dangerous,_ she should walk away she _knew_ she should walk away, and yet--

And yet--

Even as Proudmoore’s rage and fear beat at Sylvanas like a cold tide, that radiating _warmth_ tugged at the hollow inside of her.

This powerful, _fragile_ woman who had **_taken the Undercity from her--_ **

Retreat was _unacceptable._

 **“Do** \--” Too loud. “Do you really think I would have let Baine witness your brother’s resurrection if I was not _prepared_ for what it might drive him to do?”

Proudmoore’s gaze again hardened, but there was caution pouring off of her like signal smoke.

“It was only a matter of time before his _honor_ became as much a liability as Saurfang’s.”

“...and you chose to dictate the terms,” Proudmoore murmured.

“If Derek had come to you any other way, looking like he does, would you have accepted him? Or would he be in a cell beneath Boralus right now?”

 

 _“What have you done to him??”_ The frostfire flared brighter in Proudmoore’s hand, reflected in her eyes, her hair dancing in the wind of her own power, that thin streak of gold--  

 

This was dangerous, Sylvanas _knew_ this was dangerous, knew she should tell her to save her strength, save her _mana…_

 

But she was _glorious_ like this.

 

“Besides resurrecting him, to be with his loving family?” Sylvanas said sweetly. _“Nothing._ ”

“You--!”

“Tell me-- in all the months you have lived with him, developing _sympathy_ for his condition, how many times have you wondered if Baine _really_ freed him in time? How many nights have you lain awake, doubting your eyes and ears and heart?”

The frostfire fizzled out.

Triumph curled Sylvanas’ lips. “Your _brother_ was never the _weapon_ . He was the _catalyst_ to turn your own prejudice against you.”

 

Shock and hurt spread across Proudmoore’s face--

 

\--those eyes that had looked at her in wonder—

 

And something _twisted_ inside Sylvanas.

Recoiled.

 

Then the mage opened her hand again.

In an instant, Sylvanas was cocooned sabaton to eartip in solid, unyielding ice.

 

Damn.

She was going to have to drain another animal.

 

 

*******

 

 

 

Jaina staggered downhill, swatting branches and vines from her path, gathering momentum.

Her legs ached. Her ribs throbbed.

She didn’t stop.

Not until there was sand beneath her feet and open sky above her head. Sun on her face. Wind in her hair.

She took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. Focused on the smell of the sea.

 

_Sympathy for his condition._

 

Fuck.

 

She was lying. She _had_ to be lying, this was just another mind game, to…

To what? Trick her into trusting Derek?

She’d been living with him for _months_ , been torn between bittersweet joy and creeping suspicion for months.

Her sympathy for the Forsaken had been growing for months.

 

With a few commands and a bit of theater, the Banshee had reached across an ocean, past the most powerful fleet in the world and enough soldiers to crew it thrice over, through the walls of Proudmoore Keep, and _into her mind._

 

Jaina’s hands were shaking.

 

This was--

This was too much.

 

Who or _what_ had she just made a pact with?

 

 _You know_ **_nothing_ ** _of torture._

 

Fuck.

That _outburst._

The _fury_ on that fiendishly beautiful face and the _agony_ in that voice at being compared to Arthas, the way she seemed to struggle to control it…

 

 _I have_ ** _never_** _\--_ ** _will_** _never_ _violate a soul like that--_

 

That wasn’t an act.

 

_That wasn’t an act._

 

The ache returned to her chest, and she _hated_ it.

_That isn’t Sylvanas, that can’t be Sylvanas--_

That was the Butcher of Darkshore, the blighter of innocents, enslaver of the dead, Jaina _knew_ that from…

...from Anduin’s letters.

Anduin who had confessed to her how he had urged Calia Menethil to retake the throne of Lordaeron, how it had lead to her death at the Banshee’s hands.

Anduin who was barely eighteen, a strong but idealistic boy in a war room full of men who all thought they knew better than him, men who had been fighting so long they’d forgotten how to do anything else.

Anduin whose chief advisor was perhaps the single fiercest supporter of this war -- in no small part due to his personal grudge against…

 

_No._

The Banshee was taking advantage of the situation to _fuck with her head._

_Hostile territory._

_Doubt is an enemy._

She couldn’t let it get to her _._ She had to focus on getting out of here, for mother and Tandred and Derek and _Anduin--_

 

**_You know nothing of what Arthas did to me._ **

 

Unease settled in Jaina’s belly.

 

She _didn’t_ know.

 

She had hurled Arthas’ name without knowing. Without thinking. Just lashing out -- and insodoing endangering herself and by extension Kul Tiras, the Alliance…

 

And the Banshee’s reaction, it…

It was like looking in a dark mirror.

 

She had to get out of here.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaah
> 
> I re-wrote this chapter like 4 times. 
> 
> Thoughts?


	7. Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questionable coping mechanisms, dangers internal and external, and tentative plans. 
> 
> I'm looking for beta readers! Follow/hmu @ swordandsoul.tumblr.com

 

 

Jaina felt like an idiot.

But at least she was a pleasantly drunk idiot.

She sat in the sand at surf’s edge, admiring how the sea stretched out before her, glittering in the afternoon sun. Every other wave washed over her legs, blissfully cool, soaking through her pants and boots. Her undershirt, because it was utterly _awful_ at being a shirt, was now serving as a shawl, because the sun here was fucking ridiculous. Every so often she dunked it in an oncoming wave and tossed it back over her head and neck to cool off.

Sun-warmed rum burned down her throat.

Clouds had begun to gather overhead, around the highest points of the island, promising rain. Hopefully they’d block the fucking _sun._

She couldn’t recall how long it was supposed to take one’s body to adjust to this sort of climate. A week? A month? And it had only been _three days…_

 

 _Tides_ , she stank.  

 

Her body was heavy, her heartbeat sluggish and loud. Her thoughts were… _soft_ around the edges.

 

 _You know_ **_nothing_ ** _of torture_.

 

Except those ones.

She took another gulp. Swallowed with a wince and a gasp. Shook her head.

 

 _I have_ ** _never_** _\--_ ** _will_** _never_ _violate a soul like that--_

 

… but she’d made Derek, Baine, and who knows how many others _think_ she was perfectly willing to do so.

What must that be _like?_ To imitate her own _murderer,_ her _enslaver,_ for the sake of subterfuge?

Fuck.

Jaina drank.

 

Maybe she’d visit the Shado-Pan. See if there was a Sha of Empathy she could slay.

Empathy? Sympathy? Whichever.

Because it was making her think of the Forsaken, of the _Banshee,_ as something other than the deadly, remorseless threats to her people they were.

So, be it empathy or sympathy or both, it was an enemy too.

 

Except… the Banshee wasn’t just _a_ threat, was she? She was **_the_** threat. Anduin may have fucked up _slightly_ , Genn may have… done _something,_ but _she_ was the one who started this war, the one who slew Malfurion and _slaughtered_ his people, who invaded Kul Tiras, who tricked Baine into incriminating himself and Jaina into skipping meals and losing sleep…

That ruthless, _honorless_ cunning was the Horde’s greatest advantage — and in one brief argument, Jaina may have just gathered more information about the mind behind it than SI:7 had in almost a year of war.

Perhaps there was an opportunity to be had here…

But even as she thought that, frustration flared in her chest.

 

 _Don’t be a_ **_fool,_ ** _Jaina._

_She’s already exploited your empathy. Every word you exchange with her is just another chance for her to do it again._

Fuck.

She took another gulp. It stung her chapped lips.

 

Why her?

Why, in this world of warmongers and demons and endless fucking _conflict_ , did _she_ have to be burdened with compassion?

Blinking tears from her eyes, she grit her teeth and thought of the medical camps outside Boralus. The moaning soldiers confined to cots and mats and spare rolls of canvas, bandages stained red and black and yellow…

Her stomach lurched.

They didn’t _need_ a diplomat. They needed a Lord Admiral, strong and unyielding and… and…

 

_Ruthless?_

 

She drank.

It didn’t _matter_ what the Banshee’s reasons were. They were just cleverly woven _excuses_ for her bloodthirst.

And false!

The Alliance would _never_ enslave or slaughter under Anduin’s rule.

Those were _her_ strategies.

 

And Jaina was spell-bound to help her escape from here.

 

Anxious guilt squeezed in her chest.

Was she being selfish? Thinking that her contributions to the war effort were worth freeing the Banshee?

What if the best thing she could do, for Kul Tiras, for the Alliance, for mother and Tandred and Derek and Anduin, was break this pact? Sacrifice herself to trap the Banshee here?

 

… could she?

 

_My daughter…_

_It is good to have you back with us, Auntie._

_I’m still your brother, Jaina. For as long as stars do shine._

 

She drained the bottle. Coughed and spluttered and teared up.

 

She didn’t… she…

 

She just wanted to see _peace_ again.

Just once.

Then she would happily play the martyr. Would content herself to… to be just another cold stone monument in Stormwind.

 

It just couldn’t _end_ here.

 

Besides… she hadn’t put any time constraint on the pact, had she?

And the longer the Banshee was absent, the more time Saurfang and Baine’s supporters had to…

To do _something._

With an exasperated groan, she flopped back onto the sand.

 

 _Jaina, you_ **_idiot._ **

_You don’t have to sacrifice yourself. You just have to buy time._

 

 

*****

 

 

Her chest was burning when a warm, heavy raindrop hit her overheated skin. Then another.

Soon there was a steady rhythm pattering over her naked torso.

She pulled the shirt off her face.

The light was gentler. Those clouds had spread and darkened, casting a shadow far out to sea.

Despite being drowsy with drink, Jaina’s chest felt tight again. She had the sudden urge to _move,_ and heeded it. Stumbled a bit before she righted herself.

Felt like she was on the deck of a ship, which was… not as comforting as it should have been.

She took a deep breath, savored the smell of the sand released by the rain…

Then she pulled her shirt back on and started back toward camp.

And stopped.

Glanced back at the supply crate.

Best to take some rum for the road. In case something happened to it.

 

_Wonder if she can still get drunk._

 

Full bottle in hand, she tottered back up over the grassy dunes. It was _pouring_ now, washing strands of white hair into her face and forcing her to blink non-stop.

By the time she reached the treeline, she was soaked head to toe, shirt and trousers plastered to her skin, boots squelching uncomfortably -- though that _may_ have had something to do with letting the waves lap at her legs for… however long she’d done that.

 _Fuck_ she was dizzy.

Thankfully the camp was only a few hundred meters inland, just where the trees began to grow taller and thicker. Jaina stumbled through the mud, over a winding root, into the clearing… and paused.

 

The Banshee was gone. So was the ice.

 

And she’d left behind a shelter.

 

It was made of bamboo -- a wall of thick green stalks stabbed into the earth side-by-side and leaned forward forty-five degrees so that their ends rested on a final, horizontal stalk wedged in the branches of two trees, a few feet above head-height.

There were wide leaves somehow affixed to the slope of it; barely any water leaked through, despite the pouring rain… and beneath it, lashed to the same two trees, hung a hammock of frayed canvas.

Its outside was smeared with mud, but the inside was relatively clean, and _dry --_ and in it sat Jaina’s gauntlet.

 

As surprised and as she was, the rain was heavy, and the exhaustion heavier. With a few eager strides, she crossed the clearing, picked up the gauntlet, and sat. The hammock dipped beneath her, but held.

Carefully, she lay back and lifted her legs into it, sighing as the canvas embraced her. Set the armor against one thigh, and the bottle of rum against the other.

 

For the first time since she’d sailed from Boralus, something inside her relaxed.

 

Then lightning flashed over the jungle.

Immediately, Jaina’s heart began to pound.

 _Oh, please n--_  

Thunder. 

It struck her like a frostbolt to the chest, stabbing and _cold._ She lurched up and seized the edges of the hammock -- which only made it sway, and between that and her dizziness…

Her heart was beating too fast.

 

 **_Breathe,_ ** _Jaina. You need to breathe. This will pass, it’s just--_

 

Another thunderclap hit, like a blow to the ears, and she jolted, making the dizzyness even worse, gasped for air -- and couldn’t get enough.

It felt like there was a vice around her chest.

She snatched up her gauntlet and pulled it on with no thought for the twinge in her side, buckled it tight…

Her mouth was dry.

Another. She flinched, curled away from the rain and the flashing and rumbling and screwed her eyes shut.

 

 _You’re not_ **_out there_ ** _Jaina you’re on solid ground, you’re on solid ground, you can’t drown here--_

 

Like Ysra had. Like Delowe had. Like Cynbel or Logaire or the men on the mast _burned_ by lightning--

 

 _You’re not on a mast, you’re_ **_safe_ ** _here, you’re on solid ground--_

Solid ground Azshara had _put her on._

 

Why were her hands _tingling_ like that?

Another thunderclap, louder which meant _closer--_

She couldn’t breathe.

 

**“Proudmoore.”**

 

She jolted and sat up, a choked sound slipping out of her throat.

The Banshee stood barely an arm’s length away, a grim statue in the rain, embrous eyes smoldering emotionlessly down at her -- and clutched in the sharp, gauntleted fingers of her right hand was Jaina’s staff.

“Give me--!” She tried to demand. It came out choked and shaky and--

And the Banshee held it out for her.

Jaina snatched it from her claws with both hands and pulled it close to her body, trying to take comfort in the feeling of power flowing through it, breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

 

Then the Banshee stepped forward, into the shelter, and kneeled.

 

She was just as soaked as Jaina, rain plastering wisps of ghostly pale hair to the blue skin of her face and pouring from the purple and silver of her armor in rivulets.

Her hands moved.

Jaina jolted back, only to make the hammock sway more. “What are you--”

A clawed gauntlet thudded to the ground. Long, slender fingers worked deftly at the straps of the other, and it too fell away, baring tight black sleeves--

She showed Jaina her palms, and said:

 

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

In soft, gentle voice.

 

What--? 

 _An act. It’s an_ **_act._ ** 

“Get--” Jaina’s mouth was too dry, her voice weak-- “Get away!”

The Banshee’s eyes glowed brighter for a moment, like coals stoked by a sudden breeze, but soon dimmed. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, she reached down to her belt, unclipped her saber still in its scabbard, and tossed it into the mud behind her.

Next went her quiver. Then her bow.

Then her hands were back in front of her, palms up, callused…

_Still deadly weapons—_

 

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

What was this _voice?_

“Don’t look at me, if it helps.”

“I’m not--” Jaina was lightheaded. “Not _closing my eyes_ around you.”

“You already have,” she said slowly. “When we made the pact. For two and a half days thereafter. And have I harmed you?”

That wasn’t-- she was spell-bound not to--

She was spell-bound not to.

The Banshee bowed her head slightly, eyebrows lifting, eyes wide and somehow _un-threatening--_ “Can you focus on breathing?”

Right. That was what she was trying to do, before…

“Slowly… ”

Jaina sucked in a breath, let it shudder out of her.

“I am bound to protect you. I will not allow any harm to come to you.”

 

 _Can’t trust her, I made the pact because I_ **_can’t trust her_ **

 

Thunder rumbled through the jungle. Jaina stiffened.

And the other woman’s voice got _softer._

“It’s leagues away. Focus on breathing.”

“I’m--” She took another breath, as deeply as she could without straining her rib. “I’m _trying.”_

“Good… keep that up?” This was-- she sounded--  

 

... _caring._

 

How?

Jaina sucked in the most confused breath of her life. Held it for a moment. Exhaled as slowly as she could. Inhaled. Exhaled.

Syl — _the Banshee_ looked up at her, cool and composed. Her eyes glowed only dimly, and her face had ever-so-subtly relaxed -- that cursed, handsome beauty softened by what looked for all the world like genuine _support._

Inhale.

Exhale.

In.

Out.

The elf braced one forearm on the ornate lines of her cuisse, and with her other hand reached up and crooked her middle finger to brush ghostly hair from her brow. Nonchalant.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

“Good. Can you feel the staff in your hands?”

Jaina was gripping it so hard her hands shook. She took another breath. Nodded jerkily.

“Keep breathing… but focus on that. The wood in your hands. The power.”

Jaina closed her eyes. Felt the magic beneath the surface, an almost electric current _,_ sealed inside by wards strong as titansteel… 

 _“Your_ power.”

She breathed.

“Do you want to try talking through this?” The Banshee asked. “Or do you want to be distracted?”

“I’m not--” Deep breath. “ _Not_ telling you anything.”

Long ears twitched. Purple lips curled into a teasing smirk. “Worth a try.”

Jaina tried to glare, but her face already felt so twisted up--

“The lightning is leagues away,” the Banshee said matter-of-factly. “It seems to prefer those rock pillars on the mount. And there is no violet in these clouds. No spellwork.”

 

But Azshara _put them here--_

 

“Even if the lightning did strike here, your staff would absorb it.”

Jaina started. How--?

“Don’t worry. Until now, you have been exceptionally difficult to spy on.”

 

_That makes two of…_

_Wait._

_Why am I_ **_believing her?_ **

 

Jaina took another deep breath. Swallowed dryly. “Then how… ?”

“I saw Azshara’s lightning strike the _Peacemaker._ ”

Jaina’s chest tightened.

“I saw you turn her own power against her and _fight.”_

She blinked back tears, utterly frustrated with herself. “Wasn’t enough.”

“No. But judging by how much it drained you? I think you did everything in your power to save them -- and **_far_** more than anyone else could have done.”

 

_...what?_

 

Rain poured all around them. Lightning flashed, and Jaina flinched -- but it didn’t stop her staring at the woman in front of her.

The Banshee Queen held her gaze, still and steadfast… and with that crimson glow so dimmed, it almost looked like nothing more than firelight reflected in her irises.

Then the thunder hit, snapping Jaina’s muscles taught and her eyes shut.

“Breathe.”

She did. “Why--?” In. Out. In. “This isn’t--” Out. In. “This is just panic.”

“Your body believes it is in mortal danger.” The Banshee’s voice flattened a bit. “I would rather not test the nuances of this pact.” 

Right. Of course.

An act, to soothe her.

Oh, that wasn’t a helpful thought.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

She focused on the sound of the rain. Imagined it was pouring not on a far-flung, humid jungle, but into the courtyard of Proudmoore Keep…

Her right hand twinged as she unclenched it from her staff. Turned it palm-up. Felt the humidity around it, the cooled air displaced by the rain…

Muscle memory took over. Moisture coalesced above her palm, swirling and condensing into a perfect sphere of ice.

With a flick of her wrist, it evaporated -- and with it, the smallest bit of tension.

 

Gradually, minute by minute, breath by breath, her breaths came easier. After what felt like hours, her heart began to slow, easing the terrible panic from her chest… and leaving behind a queasy dread.

If the Banshee was still capable of that… _softness,_ then--

Those long ears twitched and flattened against the side of the Banshee’s head, and those eyes narrowed, suddenly blazing bright. Then she was up, buckling her gauntlets back on, snatching up her bow, her saber--

“What… ”

“Get up.” Gone was the gentleness. This was the Warchief.

Jaina blinked. She felt… unmoored. “What do you hear?”

Something colorful flitted overhead -- a bird, _ignoring_ the Banshee’s unnatural presence.

Dry heat bloomed in Jaina’s chest. She leapt to her feet, heart again pounding.

The Banshee turned away from her. “Get on my back.”

_“...what?”_

“You heard me.”

Jaina eyed the Banshee’s armor -- the sharp-looking edges of her pauldrons, the stiff metal-backed leather around her tapered waist-- “Yes, but--”

Something _cracked_ in the jungle. 

She spun towards it, still dizzy -- and froze.

Muddy water rushed over the forest floor toward them, picking up leaves and branches--

 

_Flash flood._

Just like in Durotar.

 

 _“Proudmoore._ We have no time.”

Jaina looked around-- narrow trees, no high ground, no refuge--

And the last bit of panic uncoiled in her chest.

For here was something she _knew_ how to fight.

 

“Nor do we have anywhere to go,” she said. “Get behind me.”

 

 

*******

 

 

In an instant, the mage’s demeanor changed entirely.

Her eyes cleared, the furrow in her brow shifting from turmoil to steely resolve. The tension in her shoulders eased, and they rolled back as she straightened up, gripping her staff tightly and flexing her steel-encased fingers.

Then she stepped out of the shelter and past Sylvanas, toward the oncoming flood.

 

Lord Admiral indeed.

 

The runes of her gauntlet glowed blue and gold as she raised it, pulled back, and _pushed_ the air.

A wave of frost surged forth, blasting the water back into the treeline and freezing it into a thin wall.

It only held for a moment before the current shattered and consumed it.

Proudmoore didn’t falter. Again she pushed the water back, hardening it around every trunk, transforming trees into thickening pillars of ice. With a twitch of her little finger, icicles stabbed out like branches, interweaving rapidly, and where water frothed through the gaps it quickly froze. In moments, a solid, semi-transparent wall stood between them and the oncoming flood, growing toward the canopy, cracking and re-freezing thicker and thicker until Sylvanas could no longer see the water on the other side. 

She took a step back.

There was nothing she could do but watch.

From behind, Proudmoore looked equal parts archmage and sailor. Firm muscles stood out from the softness of her arms and shoulders and the slender curve of her back, soaked and shining and shaking with effort. Her hair danced wildly, gold scattered through it, glittering with frost. Sylvanas let her eyes trail lower, over the wet navy fabric clinging to the swell of her hips and backside, her thighs…

Through the hissing of the rain and the deep crackling of the wall, Sylvanas could still hear Proudmoore’s heart, thumping hard and fast _\--_ could feel her _vitality,_ like a flame in the fog of undeath, blazing bright.

 

Her own spirit roiled like storm clouds in the hollow of her corpse, crackling with sudden, covetous desire… and not just for the power on display.

Like so much of the Horde and so little of the Alliance, Proudmoore _understood_ what it was to be rejected by her homeland, what it was to see her entire world reduced to ash -- and fought all the fiercer for it. Decided entire battles, conquered cities and froze fleets with a wave of her hand…

 

The Alliance did not _deserve_ her.

 

...but perhaps she could be made to see that.

Sylvanas had already planted the seeds, and impulsive as it had been, her own admission of that strategy had clearly shaken the mage… as had her aid only moments before. Proudmoore had glimpsed beyond the monster she thought Sylvanas was. If anything remained of the kind-hearted young leader who had fought with the Horde, had pioneered diplomacy between the factions…

Then perhaps Sylvanas wasn’t _entirely_ cut off from the war effort.

 

But before she could strategize any further, something struck the wall with a muffled _crack,_ sending a jagged white fracture through the ice. For several beats of Proudmoore’s heart it seemed the wall would hold — but then the fracture branched, and there came a deep, crackling groan—

Sylvanas surged forward.

 

*******

 

Jaina grit her teeth and leaned in, pouring more ice over the break -- but it was too late.

It burst, hurling icy shrapnel across the clearing and she shielded her face, trying to conjure a barrier—

The Banshee was faster.

She flowed past Jaina in a whirlwind of black mist and claws, swatting shards of ice from the air.

Water coursed through the breach, frothing with mud and leaves and branches and rushing around Jaina’s legs thigh-high, sending her stumbling—

A cold metal hand palmed the small of her back, steadying her even as the water reached her waist — and holding her close to the Banshee’s unwavering form.

 

There was no time to be uncomfortable. The flood poured full-force through the breach, into the clearing, threatening to swallow them whole--

 

Blocking had failed. Time to parry.

 

She did not channel the magic, this time — just let it build, humming through her veins and chilling her skin, and unleashed it with a wave of her hand.

As if before a mighty wind, the water blew back, and froze into another solid wall parallel to the current, redirecting the flood around and past them.

 

All was still save for the thinning rain and the heavy thudding of Jaina’s heart.

 

A moment passed. Then another.

The walls held.

She sagged in relief. Leaned on her staff, breathing heavily, head spinning, ribs throbbing…

Her gauntlet may as well have been an anchor affixed to the end of her arm.

Then that steadying touch fell away from her back, and Jaina was suddenly, intensely aware of how _close_ they were standing. She recoiled, stepping swiftly back despite her dizziness -- and froze.

A jagged section of tree branch protruded from the Banshee’s left side, three feet long and arm-thick. It had punched straight through the armor of her waist and pierced so deep that it barely shook as she drew her saber and chopped it short.

Jaina looked up in queasy shock.

Those eyes were _filled_ with crimson light, pupils and irises lost in the glow… and her expression was dangerously neutral.

 

“Not bad for a _drunk_ , Proudmoore. Although…” She sheathed the blade in one quick motion and _prowled_ into Jaina’s space, ears flat against the sides of her head, voice venomously sweet-- “You _have_ had quite the fright, haven’t you?”

Jaina gaped at her. “Wha-- Are you _fucking seri_ \--”

The Banshee took another step, forcing Jaina back, glaring murderously-- _“So I will make this_ ** _simple._** If I give you an order, it is because there is _danger._ Danger I swore on pain of death to protect you from. If you do not comply, I will be forced to _make you_. So unless you want these cold, _dead_ hands on you? **_Do as I say.”_**

“You--!” Jaina’s face went hot with anger. “I just _saved_ both of us!”

“My _intestines_ beg to differ.”  

Was that--? She barely even seemed to _feel_ the wound.

Jaina hid her confusion beneath a furious glare. “I’m sorry, were you _using them?”_

The Banshee blinked. Her eyes dimmed, her eyebrows rose--

And then she _grinned,_ baring sharp white fangs, and a low, husky chuckle spilled from her lips and sent a shiver down Jaina’s back. 

“Such _cheek_ , Lady Proudmoore.” Again her tone was sweet, words melodic-- “Continue like this and I may just decide to raise you with that clever mind _intact._ ”

_What?_

“What happened to never violating a soul?”

That unnerving grin faded to the faintest smirk. The Banshee tilted her head.

“You think yours would decline a second chance to fix this world? To be with--”

“If you even fucking _mention_ my family I swear I will freeze you again.” Jaina primed the conduits of her gauntlet so that the runes glowed threateningly. “And I would _decline_ being turned into an _abomination.”_

Just like that, the Banshee’s expression was neutral again. Only the smolder of her eyes betrayed any feeling at--

 

Oh.

...how had she not realized that before? It wasn’t just a threat display, it was--

 

“Perhaps,” said the Banshee. Then she turned away, toward the walls of ice. “Would you be so kind as to clear a path? We need to get to higher ground.”

 

Jaina blinked. The rain had thinned to a light sprinkle, and the rushing of floodwaters beyond the walls was gone.

It was over.

They were… safe?

She glanced at the branch in the Banshee’s side. Black fluid oozed from the wound. How _deep_ was it?

“Are you…” She weighed her words. “...Alright to travel?”

The Banshee’s ears twitched. She didn’t turn. “Would I have suggested it, were I not?”

 

What-- then why was she _cranky_ about it?

 

Exasperated and tired, Jaina raised her hand and conjured fire inside the wall, melting open a gap just wide enough to step through.

Without so much as a backward glance, the Banshee did so, gait unaltered by the mortal wound in her waist, and strode out of sight.

 

Jaina swayed.

To say she felt disoriented would be an understatement.

This felt more like… _whiplash._

From coldness to _kindness_ and back to cruel taunting -- which, at least this time, had been born of _frustration…_

Jaina’s mouth was dry again.

 

She could _read_ her.

 

Just a little, a few symbols in an unfamiliar script… like those first words of Thalassian or Orcish or…

No.

She swallowed roughly.

She had needed to understand those tongues for diplomacy -- understanding the _Banshee_ might just equip Jaina to defeat her. To end the war.

 

This _was_ an opportunity... and she owed it to everyone to exploit it to the best of her ability. 

 

With a steadying breath, she stood tall and followed her enemy through the breach.

Towards the mist-shrouded interior of the island. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rationalizations ;)
> 
> Inspired by my wonderful gf helping me through an anxiety attack last week.


	8. Pull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to put some smiles in this chapter. 
> 
> GORE WARNING
> 
> Shoutout to budgiebum for beta-ing!

 

 

 

**Proudmoore Keep**

**Eight Months Ago**

  
  
  
  


Jaina’s breath caught in her throat. 

“Oh… mother, it’s…” 

Katherine lay a hand on her shoulder, anxious concern plain on her face. 

“I’m alright, I just… it’s just as I remembered.” 

Katherine smiled softly. Gave a squeeze. “Go on, then. I’ll have some tea brought up.” 

Jaina almost didn’t. Almost  _ couldn’t.  _ To feel her mother’s touch after so long… the urge to sink back into her embrace was overwhelming. 

How did she  _ still  _ have tears to shed? She’d dehydrate herself, at this rate.

 

With a shaky breath, she pulled away, and stepped into the library. 

 

The smell of old books filled her senses, lapping at the anxiety of the past days like gentle waves. 

A beam of light, dyed subtly green by the stained-glass windows, shone down into the middle of the room, where it suffused a glass prism floating above the bearskin rug and was magnified by the spellwork within, illuminating the space. 

“One of your first souvenirs from Dalaran,” her mother said softly. “You were so worried--”

“--about having a fire around all the books,” Jaina murmured.

She padded across the hardwood floor to the first of the high bookshelves, and reached out, tentatively, to brush her fingers along the spines. Her parents had them all re-bound when she took so fiercely to reading, such that the silver embossment of the titles was still clear and bold, so many years later… 

Fuck, she was tearing up again. 

She moved slowly through the room, eyes skimming the titles, stirring the depths of her memory.  _ Encyclopaedia Nautica, The Common Bloke’s Hist’ry of Kul Tiras, Lugliver’s Travels, Heroes of the Second War, The Adventures of Aegwynn…  _

 

It was no Library of Dalaran -- but after a lifetime, it was  _ home  _ again. 

 

Soft footsteps pulled her from her reverie -- one of the staff, setting teacups and sugar dishes and utensils out on the low table in the corner of the room, pouring… 

“Thank you, Sophie.” Katherine took a seat on the same worn chaise Jaina had spent so many afternoons upon, and Jaina hesitated. 

The last time she’d been in this room, her mother had been taller than her. 

“Will you sit with me, Jaina?” 

“I…” She smiled. “Of course.” 

 

Her mother spoke to her differently, now. Obviously she would, with all that had changed since they’d last seen each other, but it was still jarring to hear the tough-love commands of her childhood replaced with soft requests. 

She crossed the room and sat… and was, abruptly,  _ very  _ conscious of her posture.  _ Chin up, shoulders back…  _

Katherine spooned sugar into her tea, then paused. Looked at Jaina cautiously. “I’ve just realized I never asked, do you still…?”

“Take tea with my sugar? Yes.” 

Her mother smirked, and scooped some into Jaina’s cup. “Just making sure. I know how those continentals love their bitter bean-water.” 

The dry disapproval in her tone brought a smile to Jaina’s face. “You don’t know the half of it, I assure you. No, I never stopped drinking tea. It, um… it’s always reminded me of home.” 

Her mother’s face was unbearably soft, and Jaina had to avert her eyes to keep from crying again. With a wave of her hand, she cooled their tea just slightly, and picked hers up. 

If Katherine was thrown by the display, she said nothing. For several moments, actually. Jaina sipped her tea, trying not to let the anxiety return. But then: 

“Have you… spoken to Tandred, much?” 

She sighed. “No. He… I don’t think he knows what to make of me.”

“You mean he’s avoiding you.” An entirely different kind of disapproval hardened her mother’s voice, but only slightly.

“Please don’t confront him about it, he has every right to be…  _ conflicted _ , about this.”

Katherine stared at her teacup for a moment. “I told him of what truly happened, with your father. And he knows what would have befallen Kul Tiras, without you and the champions you brought here. He just needs some time.” 

_ And the Horde who followed me here? _

“I know. I just worry…” She shook her head. “Nevermind.” 

“He misses you, Jaina.” 

Her gaze snapped up -- and she found tears once again brimming in her mother’s eyes. “What?”

“He does. As much as I have.”

“But-- you both thought I had betrayed Kul Tiras, betrayed  _ Derek’s memory… _ ”

“We did. And it made missing you that much harder… ” She picked up her tea with shaking hands.  _ Smaller  _ hands than Jaina remembered. “Besides,” she waved dismissively. “Tandred loves open waters and bawdy wenches far too much to ever covet your position.” 

“Does he?” Jaina sipped her tea… and thought rose to the surface of her mind. Something she’d never had the chance to talk to her mother about, to seek her guidance on -- and now that they were finally beginning to mend things, she  _ craved  _ it, but… well, they were finally beginning to  _ mend  _ things. If she didn’t approve, or worse…

“Jaina? Is something wrong?”

Her hands were shaking, suddenly -- and then her mother’s were around them, clasped tightly, eyes searching… 

“What is it, dear?”

“I…” 

Fuck, she didn’t  _ want  _ to lie to her…

 

Jaina wet her lips. Took a deep breath. “I, um. It’s… it’s just that Tandred and I… aren’t so different _ , _ in that respect.”

 

Katherine blinked. “What do you mean? With respect to…” Her eyes went wide. “Oh.” She blinked again. “You…”

_ Oh tides.  _ Jaina’s heart thudded hard in her chest.  _ I shouldn’t have said that I shouldn’t have  _ **_said that_ ** _ \--  _

But her mother’s hands stayed where they were -- and she inclined her head a bit, eyes again searching. “Jaina, dear…”

“Yes?” 

“Just… for clarity’s sake, are we talking about the sailing, or…?”

Jaina couldn’t meet her gaze. “Um. No. Well, yes-- but also…”

“The bawdy wenches?” Katherine smirked. “Because I would hope my daughter might have  _ slightly  _ more discerning taste in women.”

“Oh!” Jaina’s mouth opened and closed several times. “You... you don’t…”

“Disapprove?” Katherine let go of her hands, and pulled Jaina into a hug “Of  _ course  _ not, darling. What narrow-minded things have those continentals put in your head?” 

“It’s not like that, I just… I guess I prepared myself for the worst, coming back.” 

Katherine sighed. “That was probably wise.” She pulled back, hands still on Jaina’s shoulders, and seemed to study her for a moment. “It was Dalaran, wasn’t it?” 

“What?” 

“All those graceful elven women with their exotic fashions, it’s no wonder you--” 

_ “Mother.”  _ Jaina’s face heated. 

“You wouldn’t be the first, dear. And if Dalaran was the arena for that bit of self-discovery, well. Another reason for me to be glad I sent you.”

And just like that, she was crying again. Katherine cupped her face in her hands, and brushed away her tears.

“Thank you so much for trusting me with this, Jaina.”

Jaina nodded. “I just wish it could’ve been sooner.”

“As do I. But you’re here  _ now,  _ and that’s what matters.” Katherine plucked a serviette from the table, dabbed at Jaina’s face, and pressed it into her hands. Then she picked up her tea. “So. Just women, then? Lady Waycrest is eligible, last I checked, though there’s also that Greymane lass…” 

“I--” Jaina blinked, thrown off by the turn in conversation. “No, men are still… an  _ option _ \--  but I’m not looking for anyone right now.” 

“Jaina, you’re thirty-five…”

“I’m also  _ quite  _ busy with the war effort, mother.” 

Katherine’s eyes narrowed just the tiniest bit. She sipped her tea. “So you are. And I suppose I didn’t ask you here to pester you about heirs, did I?” 

Jaina let out a relieved breath, and put some more sugar in her tea. 

Katherine put hers down. “Listen, I… I didn’t make you Lord Admiral because you’re older than Derek. I did it because I trust that you are the best person to see us through what’s to come. You are brave, you are strong, you know the outside world, the enemies we face, the allies we need…” She took a breath, looking at Jaina with regret etched into her features. “And I know you that are a capable leader. I just… I need to feel that I have done enough to prepare you.” 

“Of course.” 

Katherine grasped the anchor pendant around Jaina’s neck, thumbing it fondly. “Do you remember what your father used to tell you, about being Lord Admiral?”

Jaina frowned. 

“It was before your magic first manifested. You couldn’t have been more than seven or eight…”

“I… I’m afraid I don’t recall.” 

Katherine let go of the pendant. “Well. He would say that what aided him, and what has aided our predecessors all the way back to the Founding, is to think of Kul Tiras as a ship and the Lord Admiral as captain. You have to be more than just the one giving commands. If the helmsman falls, you must take the wheel. If the ship is becalmed, you must decide how to ration supplies so that the most essential personnel stay strong, and you must bear the weight of that decision. And if your ship is caught in a tempest, be it of wind and rain, fleets and armies, or something else… you must be the sturdy main mast, for your people to cling to.” 

She looked Jaina in the eye, suddenly uncertain. “I hope that’s at least somewhat helpful, I…”

Jaina reached out and took her hand. 

“It is. Thank you, mother.”

Katherine smiled tiredly. Then she reached for her tea again. “Good. Now, in the category of right bloody  _ tossers  _ to be aware of among the nobles…”

  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
  


**Unknown Island**

**Now**

  
  
  
  


She was  _ limping.  _

It had taken over an hour of hiking through thickening jungle, up a gradual slope gnarled with roots and rain-smoothed rocks that put a burn in Jaina’s already-tired muscles… but step by step, the Banshee put more and more weight on her right side --her un-impaled side-- and a stiffness came over her left leg. 

All while she kept a hand pressed to the stump in her waist, preventing it from being pushed out by her movements. 

Which meant that blood… or rather  _ fluid  _ loss was a serious concern for her. The black ichor that now streaked her plackart and cuisse must have played an important part in the necromancy preserving her, but… 

Jaina stumbled over a thick root. Caught herself on her staff.

The Banshee didn’t look back. Just kept limping uphill. 

 

The living limped because of  _ pain.  _

 

The urge to… to do  _ something  _ for her tugged at Jaina, and she clenched her jaw and fist against it. Breathed it out. 

The body in front of her was a  _ puppet _ . What reason could the Banshee have had to restore its ability to feel pain? The limp was probably the result of damaged muscles and tendons. 

All because Jaina had decided to get drunk in the baking sun. 

Fuck.

Again the urge to help. Again she forced it down. 

The Banshee had told her about Derek to fuck with her head. In retaliation for comparing her to Arthas, but still -- she **_drove_** Jaina to drink, and she could bloody well reap the consequences. 

 

Jaina gripped her staff and pressed onward. 

 

So far from the shore, the life was more varied — broad, vine-wrapped giants rising out of a sea of lush ferns, stubby palms, and bamboo thickets. As the sun sank toward the horizon, the verdant greens were muted, the sun-shafts dim, and the shadows long. 

Birdsong and strange, barking hoots echoed in the distance, but their immediate surroundings were silent save for the occasional drip of water or rustle of leaves. Everything that could move had fled before the coming of the Banshee. 

 

**“Proudmoore.”**

 

The Banshee didn’t look back at her -- just turned her head enough to emphasize that she was addressing her. Then, with a series of quick movements, she freed the waterskin from her belt and tossed it over. 

Jaina reached up to grab it, but missed the strap, and fumbled it to the ground. 

Bending down to get it sent a twinge through her rib-- and the Banshee  _ twitched.  _

 

Jaina paused, staring up at her. Those red eyes surveyed the jungle around them, impassive. 

 

_ So I  _ **_did_ ** _ translate Dath’remar’s treatise correctly -- the pact exerts a physical pull to enforce itself. _

 

“What are you gawking at?” The Banshee said without looking at her. 

Jaina stood and uncapped the waterskin. “I’d answer that, but I’d rather avoid another shouting match at the moment.” 

She drank, and nearly moaned as the water slid down her throat. It was still cold, how…?

She examined it for enchantments, and found none. Chilled by the Banshee’s presence?

_ That’s… rather useful.  _

 

“We’ll camp here for the night.”

 

Jaina looked up. The Banshee was limping away, toward the relatively level ground between the protruding roots of a large tree -- its trunk broad enough to shelter them from any potential floods. 

Jaina walked over and sat. 

The Banshee didn’t. Instead she leaned heavily back against the tree, hard enough for her armor to thud and creak -- and again Jaina stared.

Her brows were furrowed together, fangs bared in a grimace, eyes glowing bright. And Jaina  _ knew  _ it couldn’t be pain, but the urge to help  _ tugged  _ at her, sudden and powerful.

She sat still. 

Slowly, the Banshee bent her working leg and slid to the ground, her armor scoring the trunk behind her. All the while keeping her left hand pressed to the branch.

“Are you--” Jaina wet her lips. “How serious is this?"

The Banshee sad nothing. Schooled her features back into a mask of neutrality. 

Right. Jaina wouldn’t just offer up sensitive information, were their positions reversed.

Except she’d  _ have  _ to, or they were both fucked. 

“Is it fixable?” She asked. 

The Banshee’s gaze remained on the jungle, hawk-sharp and vigilant. “Yes.”

“How?”

“I’ll handle it. You rest.”

Jaina was abruptly reminded of more than a few stubborn soldiers. This was  _ entirely  _ too familiar. It made her uncomfortable. 

“You can’t walk.” 

Still the Banshee didn’t look at her -- but Jaina caught the way her eyes glowed brighter, bloodier, the way her jaw flexed, the way her ears twitched as if she was forcing them to be still-- 

“I need an animal.”

“...what?”

“At least as large as a hound.” Then she turned her head, and met Jaina’s gaze for the first time since they’d started hiking.  _ Glared  _ at her, as if challenging-- “And still alive.”

 

Oh.

 

Wait -- banshees weren’t vampiric by nature… 

Jaina must have made a face, because  _ this  _ Banshee smirked cruelly, and said: 

“I didn’t take you for a vegetarian, Proudmoore. No wonder you’ve wasted away so.” 

“Oh, fuck  _ off.” I’ve lost weight because of your fucking  _ **_scheme_ ** _ and you know it.  _

The smirk grew to a grin, cold and hungry. “I was  _ wondering _ when the Kul Tiran charm would show itself.”

“You want to see Kul Tiran charm?” Jaina bared her teeth right back. “Come see me after we’re free of this pact.”

The Banshee’s half-lidded gaze dragged purposefully down and up Jaina’s underdressed body, again flaring brighter, and with that honeyed poison in her voice, she lilted: “Don’t  _ tempt  _ me, Lady Proudmoore.” 

A shiver raced down Jaina’s spine -- and a warm ache pulsed in her core. 

 

_ What.  _

 

She looked away, into the underbrush.  _ What the fuck? Am I  _ **_really_ ** _ that starved for affection?? _

 

“This animal,” she said, voice impressively neutral, “You can’t just… leave your body and possess one? Walk it back?” 

There was a pause.

Jaina looked.

The Banshee’s pupils were pinpricks in rings of fire. 

**“No.”** Her voice was cold. “I cannot.”

 

What…? 

Jaina blinked. “Alright… then I’ll go find something for you. I have enough mana left.”

She looked away. “Don’t be a fool. I’m not going to die. Rest, and do it when you wake.”

“Are you serious?” Jaina glanced at the oozing wound. No way she’d be able to fall asleep with the Banshee bleeding out right beside her. 

She brought her knees to her chest, gripped her staff, and pulled herself up with a pained hiss. Took a moment to breathe, scanning the surrounding jungle…

“Do you know how to hunt?”

Jaina looked over her shoulder. The Banshee’s gaze was on the trees as well. 

“Yes.” She stood up a bit straighter, preparing to hike. 

“Proudmoore.” 

“What?”

_ “Do you?” _

She squashed the urge to snap. Looked away. “What did you think I was doing during the Legion’s invasion?” 

Silence. 

Then: “Demons are not wildlife. Cloak your scent and cast swiftly.” 

 

Hm. Good point -- prolonged fel addiction degraded the senses… 

Bollocks. This was going to require mud. 

She took a breath, and started out. 

 

“Wait.” 

 

And turned again. 

The Banshee looked her up and down, but this time it was detached, calculating. “What are your measurements?” 

“...excuse me?”

The Banshee looked her in the eye again, poker-faced. Then, with the hand she’d been holding over her wound, she began unbuckling a gauntlet. “Your measurements. What are they?”

Oh. 

The gauntlet hit the ground. She reached down, and started on a greave. 

Shit, what  _ were  _ they? She’d lost so much weight… “It’s been a while since I checked, but… thirty-four, twenty-nine, thirty-eight?” 

The Banshee glanced up, as if to check. Detached one greave, and moved to the next. “And in sensible units?” 

Oh great, some of her elven snobbery had survived. “Eighty six, seventy-four, ninety-six.” 

Both greaves off. She moved to her sabatons. 

Soon her entire suit of armor, save for the plackart and breastplate, which were much too narrow for Jaina, lay on the ground before her… and ichor pooled beneath her. 

Jaina couldn’t help but wince.

Beneath it all, the Banshee wore purple leggings, laced tight down the sides around the long, muscular swell of her thighs and calves. Without pauldron or gauntlet, the sculpted muscles of her shoulders and arms were bare, marked here and there by faint scars… 

And apparently, — _ horrifically—  _ certain long-neglected parts of Jaina were  _ not _ deterred by ash-blue skin, eyes like hellfire, or palpable necromancy. 

Her face heated, and she kneeled to snatch the first sabaton from the pile. 

_ Calm down, Jaina. This is probably why she went to so much fucking trouble to restore her body, she  _ **_wants_ ** _ to have this effect on people, to throw them off. It’s siren song. You’re smarter than that.  _

 

The sabaton didn’t fit, even with her boot on underneath. The Banshee’s feet were too  _ elfin.  _

She moved on to the greaves — and found them to be lighter than they looked. And there was spellwork within, tiny runes around the silvered edges… arcane  _ and  _ ice, reinforcing and cooling,  and well-crafted. Nightborne work? 

She had to tighten the straps all the way, and they came up a little past her knee, but they fit. It was the same with the cuisses, digging slightly into the place where her legs met her hips, but they were adjustable as well, and Jaina’s thighs were the thickest part of her. Well, second thickest. 

Thankfully, the pauldrons had two sets of straps: one for the chestplate the Banshee still wore, but one for the arms as well. Soft leather hugged her biceps and shoulders, making the weight and general bulkiness bearable. 

And amidst the scents of leather and metal, that odd floral note, just barely there, fresh and faintly… spicy? 

Jaina slid her hands into the gloves within the gauntlets… and found they were too wide. 

_ Archer’s forearms…  _

Nor did her fingers reach the tips.  She put the gauntlets down and stood, swaying slightly under the weight. Her muscles ached. Fully rested and fed, it would have been one thing, but tired as she was… 

At least the enchantments kept it cool. 

“Now will you rest?” 

She shot the Banshee a glare. “I’m fine. All I have to do is hide and cast.” 

The Banshee eyed her disinterestedly for only a breath before reaching for the armor that didn’t fit Jaina. “There are fruit trees a third of a league northeast. You can feed yourself, and use them as bait. Can you find your way, or must I craft you a—”

“I’ll be fine.”

With a squeeze, Jaina sent a pulse of arcane energy through her staff, magnetizing the prongs around its crystal head. Tiny arcs of electricity snapped between crystal and metal -- but only on the north side.

She shot the Banshee a triumphant glare. The Banshee wasn’t looking. 

She stomped away. Well,  _ hobbled  _ was probably more accurate -- but she did it angrily. 

  
  
  


*****

  
  


Regeneration via vampiric magic. That was unexpected… which it really  _ shouldn’t  _ have been. Jaina had known the Banshee was a powerful necromancer -- now with the finest mages of the Horde at her command. 

Her body must be  _ layered  _ with enchantments beyond the basic animating and preserving spells. 

It was no  _ puppet --  _ it was a suit of armor, immeasurably more sophisticated than the leather and titanium Jaina was wearing. 

...what must that  _ be  _ like? Working on your own corpse from outside it, as if it were nothing more than a  _ garment _ ? The way she exploded at the mention of her death… was there enough of Sylvanas left in her to  _ feel  _ something more than possessiveness for the flesh she’d been torn from?

Another shiver shot down Jaina’s back. She gripped her staff. 

Whatever the Warchief’s feelings about it, she probably had more in common with a Death Knight than other Banshees.

 

She had  _ remade  _ herself into something beyond what Arthas forced upon her. 

Something entirely unique.

 

The realization stopped Jaina in her tracks, and put an ache in her chest. 

That… that wasn’t how undeath  _ worked.  _ The dead didn’t  _ heal,  _ didn’t move past things, so how…? 

_ Stop it. Focus, Jaina. You need to find something to eat before you pass out, and you need to get the Banshee something to…  _ **_consume_ ** _ so she can keep watch after you’ve passed out.  _

 

She crouched, and gathered some mud. Rubbed it over her bare arms, her torso, her legs… and, with a wince and a sigh, through her hair. 

Hopefully that would do it. Tides knew she needed a wash. 

Picking up her staff, she pressed on. 

The fruit trees were roughly where the Banshee said they’d be -- and, mercifully, they were shorter than their neighbors. Clusters of large, head-sized fruits hung among the leaves, colored red and green.

Stomach rumbling, Jaina reached for one… and paused.

 

Could they have grown this large without cultivation?

 

With the exception of a few species found in Stranglethorn, all the wild fruits Jaina could think of were tiny. 

Which meant either some ancient inhabitants had tended to them, perhaps pre-Sundering, or… 

 

Something rustled behind her.

 

Jaina went very still. Her heart did not. 

Yellow eyes and dagger-claws flashed through her mind, sending a wave of dry heat over her skin. 

Slowly, angling her staff to hold it like a spear, she turned — and jerked away from the oncoming fangs, throwing her arm up— 

The serpent’s jaws snapped shut around her gauntleted forearm, and the force of the strike sent her stumbling, tripping, falling--

She hit the ground back-first, driving the air from her lungs and jarring her broken ribs, and at her feet the serpent reared up to to strike again, fangs bared and hissing and almost as tall as she was.

And she needed to take it alive.

_ Fuck.  _

It lunged. 

Jaina threw out her hand, summoning an arcane shield just in time to deflect -- the beast bounced off of it unharmed, still hissing. Clenching her fingers, she forced the energy tight around the water molecules in the air, instantly creating a haze of frost, and hurled it forward. The serpent recoiled, writhing at the sudden chill, flakes of ice falling from its scales. 

She made a fist, coalescing more frost around its head, but it pulled away too quickly, slithered lightning-fast around to the side-- 

With a burst of violet force, Jaina flew to her feet -- and the telltale tingle of mana depletion bit at her nerves. 

Only the Banshee’s pauldrons saved her neck from the serpent’s fangs, but the impact still sent her reeling--

She couldn’t keep this up. 

It lunged again. 

  
  


*******

  
  


The pull wasn’t a suggestion, this time. It was a  _ command,  _ harsh and relentless, threatening a third death if she didn’t rush to Proudmoore’s defence-- 

And Sylvanas couldn’t  _ walk.  _

She thought immediately of the panther on the beach -- and her spirit writhed, involuntarily clinging tighter to her bones, but the pull only grew stronger, like a pale imitation of Arthas’ shackles-- 

If it was a beast threatening her, Sylvanas would have to--

_ Please no _

Have to-- 

With a snarl, she surged out of her body and followed the pull.  Immediately, all sensation disappeared. The world went gray and indistinct, as if a layer of ash lay over anything, and phantom tears leaked from her eyes. 

She flew, wilting trees as she passed through them, ignoring the smaller lights of birds and primates to follow the pull toward Proudmoore. Toward the danger.

 

If it was a beast— 

She could taste the blood, feel the panic of a dozen hearts as their spirits unraveled around her, the fear as she was forced to wield their bodies as weapons and the pain of their wounds and a wail built deep in her soul—

 

The pull vanished. 

 

It was as if a string had been cut… and she was unharmed. 

Either Proudmoore had overcome, or the pact only bound their bodies. 

Her  _ body.  _

She twisted into shadow, seeking the beacons she’d woven into her flesh, and emerged an arm’s length in front of her corpse where it slumped against the trunk. It  _ looked  _ unchanged, but with no real eyes to speak of-- 

She rushed back into its comforting cold, into bones and muscles and painstakingly imitated nerves-- 

It was the same as she’d left it. 

If she was still in the habit of breathing, she would have sighed. If her nervous system was intact, tension would have eased from her shoulders. 

Instead she just sat, and that was enough. 

 

This could not happen again. 

If the only way to safeguard Proudmoore was to-- to  _ possess  _ something, she… 

She  _ couldn’t. _ She would  _ drown  _ in the memories, and lose herself, and Proudmoore would not survive. 

This could  _ not  _ happen again. She needed to be able to move. 

The branch -- thrown faster than any spear by the flood shattering some tree. It had struck right along the seam of her plackart. 

Perhaps Proudmoore could weave more effective reinforcement spells. 

  
  


*****

  
  


The forest was dim when she re-emerged from the ferns… dragging a massive snake over one shoulder, its head encased in ice -- but its vital flame still burning. 

Sylvanas felt more hollow than usual. 

Her breath coming in ragged gasps, Proudmoore took several more steps, jerking the beast along behind her, before shrugging out from under it so that it thudded to the ground at Sylvanas’ feet.

 

“It tried to hunt you?”

“Tried.”

 

Sylvanas looked the mage over as she returned to her earlier spot against the root, leaning heavily on her staff. In the last weak hints of light, she could make out sweat shining on her brow, and mud caking her body, her hair… but no obvious injuries. 

Sylvanas leaned forward, wrapped a gauntleted hand around the beast’s neck, and pulled it into her lap. Sank the claws of her other hand into it, such that even with its head frozen it spasmed and coiled violently. 

Then, staring Proudmoore dead in the eye, she took a huge, merciless bite out of it. Blood sprayed her face, her neck and shoulders, and splattered down her body, hot and coppery and  _ delicious.  _ The mere presence of  _ flavor  _ was almost overwhelming -- but she didn’t break eye contact. 

The mage flinched, eyes wide, and Sylvanas could see the glow of her own reflected in the serpent’s scales, flaring bright. 

She sneered into the convulsing beast, and took another bite. She tore away, stretching cords of gristle until they snapped, and didn’t bother to chew, just swallowed. Her body drained the life from the meat as it slid down her throat, like a sunrise within her, spreading fleeting warmth through her cold flesh. 

Proudmoore averted her eyes. 

She took a few more bites, but knew her body would reject the withered remains if she consumed too much -- she would  _ not  _ lose her supper in front of this ignorant, self-righteous… 

The serpent’s spine snapped in her fist, and it went still. 

Sylvanas reached down, sank her claws into the branch, and ripped it from her side, splattering ichor across the ground and pulling strings of torn intestine from the hole. Those she gathered back into herself, and drained the life from the snake’s leaking body. 

Slowly, the wound began to heal. 

Proudmoore covered her mouth with the back of her hand. 

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


That was so fucking  _ unnecessary.  _ She didn’t need to  _ eat  _ it to drain it -- and probably couldn’t even  _ taste  _ it. 

She’d done it just to spite Jaina.

_ Did I really anger her  _ **_that much?_ **

In the corner of her eye the Banshee stood, unimpaired, and tossed the dessicated husk of the snake into the center of the little clearing. 

Then she crouched over it, coiled it up, drew a flint and steel from her belt, and struck them together. A spark leapt onto the husk, and within several minutes they had a small, very smoky fire. It smelled like leather burning. 

The Banshee sat again, leaving a few feet between herself and the ichor she’d left on the ground. Closer to Jaina. 

“My armor.”

Jaina began taking it off, but with her belly full of fruit, the exhaustion was like a fog in her mind, and her limbs were like lead. She’d gotten one pauldron off and was struggling with the second when the Banshee knelt in front of her, and cold fingers brushed her hands away. 

Jaina was too tired to suppress the flinch. “I can do it.” 

The Banshee ignored her -- and, when Jaina reached up to swat her hands away, seized her wrist with an iron grip, just short of hurting. 

Jaina jerked her arm free, and took the hint. Watched the fire. 

The Banshee donned each piece of armor as she removed it from Jaina -- somehow, though there was some jostling involved, without actually  _ touching  _ her again. 

Jaina was too tired to wonder about that. 

As the Banshee stepped away, once again fully armored, Jaina lay down on her side, back to the fire. 

It was quiet.

With the poultices still in her ears, she could only hear the crackle and flutter of the flames behind her. 

Some deep, ancient part of her mind still found it comforting, despite knowing that the Banshee’s aura would ward off wildlife more efficiently than the light… 

 

How could such a creature be so  _ comforting?  _

 

When the panic pounded through her veins, everything inside and out in unrelenting motion, that undead stillness had been  _ calming.  _

To say nothing of her voice. 

How could that kindness have survived her spirit being weaponized?

 

_ Dark Lady watch over you.  _

 

A chill shot down Jaina’s back. 

The Forsaken. The reality of their condition, the memory of the horrors Arthas had forced them to commit… how much _support_ must they need to not succumb to madness? 

...was that how she was with them? Steadfast and reassuring? 

 

Their main mast in the storm?

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


Sylvanas waited until Proudmoore’s heartbeat slowed and her breathing relaxed to walk over and kneel beside her. Then she reached out, gently laid a bare hand on the human’s shoulder -- and immediately drew it back. 

With her nerves revived by the serpent’s essence, Proudmoore’s body heat was like reaching into a fire -- not in pain, but in the sheer intensity of the sensation.

So she stood, and stepped away. Looked out into the darkened jungle. Listened to the symphony of rustling leaves, chirping insects, and echolocating clicks. Savored the scent of the serpent’s husk burning. The subtle weight of her armor. The calluses on her palms. The taste of iron lingering on her tongue. 

 

Hours passed. 

Slowly, like her life’s blood trickling away once more, her senses dulled. 

Only once she could no longer smell or taste did she return to Proudmoore’s side. 

Touched her shoulder.

No reaction.

Slowly, she laid the human on her back -- and paused for a beat, watching for any signs of wakefulness. When none came, she reached into the human’s ear and removed the disinfectant poultice. Proudmoore flinched, and rolled her head away, such that her other ear was against the ground. 

As gently as she could, Sylvanas curled her hand under the human’s cheek -- and tensed. Even with her senses dulled again, the warmth was… a lot. Combined with the  _ softness  _ of Proudmoore’s freckled skin, it was almost too much. Sylvanas grit her teeth, and turned the human’s head to the other side. 

Proudmoore sighed contentedly… and leaned into her touch. 

Sylvanas froze. 

In the hollow of her chest, her spirit stilled. 

Then she tore her hand away. Removed the other poultice, pushed fresh ones into each ear, and retreated to the other side of the fire. 

 

She did not look at Proudmoore again that night. 

But she listened to her heartbeat.

 

 


	9. Let the Games Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alt title: Let It Not Be Forgotten that Sylvanas Is An Asshole
> 
> Short Chapter! I just wanna show that I'm still working on this -- life has been getting in the way+ I'm putting more time into my original work, but there IS more to come!

 

 

 

 

Jaina woke to soft light glowing through her eyelids, and immediately regretted it. 

Everything hurt. Muscles, joints, ribs… 

And her stomach was almost painfully hollow, which meant she was going to have to move them. 

Ugh. 

Something hit the ground next to her, jolting her fully awake, mana rushing to her fingertips-- 

A fruit. One of those head-sized, red-and-green-skinned delicacies… with her own dagger stabbed into it.  Jaina’s heart leapt -- she thought she’d lost it on the beach, but… 

...but the Banshee had kept it. This whole fucking time. 

Anger flared hot in her chest. She tried to sit up, and abruptly discovered several new muscles, none of which were happy with her. She flopped back down, gasping in pain.

The humidity was  _ worse  _ here. It was like breathing steam. 

 

Metal struck metal.  Jaina turned -- and sucked in a breath. 

The Banshee was shirtless. Pale bandages wrapped small breasts, baring all the lean muscles that cinched her narrow waist… and a massive, raised scar running from her sternum to her belly.

Jaina  _ knew _ as soon as she saw it. Her stomach twisted.  Then she spotted the shapes around it --  _ runes,  _ tattooed in lines radiating from the scar and wrapping around her body, hinting at deeper, more complex spells, preserving her body, fortifying it… 

Reclaiming it. 

With one strong arm, the Banshee held her plackart against the tree, and with the other she raised her saber.

As Jaina watched, she slammed the pommel into her armor, cracking the bark behind it. She drew it back and struck again, hammering at the bent metal where the tree branch had struck, shoulders and arms rippling, stomach muscles tightening… 

All with dried blood still streaked down her jaw, neck, and chest, a grisly echo of the tears burned into her cheeks. 

 

For not the first time in recent months, Jaina was struck with the odd, wistful feeling that she was witnessing something which would one day inspire a great painting or mural or tapestry… 

If she survived to tell of it.

The Banshee stopped, and leaned in to inspect the plackart -- and then, with a single swift motion, flipped her grip on the saber and sheathed it. 

Jaina looked away. 

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, and then into a sitting position, dislodging flakes of dried mud. Ugh, she could feel it on her scalp… 

 

“There is a stream not far from here.” The Banshee buckled on her cuisse, then crouched to pick up her breastplate. “Eat.” 

Jaina lifted the fruit by the handle of her dagger and cut herself a slice. It hurt her forearms. “Have you been wearing that over bare skin this entire time?”

_ How much can you feel?  _

Breastplate in place, the Banshee said nothing -- just picked up something else, and tossed it at Jaina’s feet. 

Bamboo. Thick stalks, cut the long way and thoroughly tied into rectangular sections… one for each section of her limbs, and one for her torso. 

The insides were dark purple -- the remnants of the Banshee’s shirt. 

Frowning, Jaina took a bite of fruit, the sweet juice sending a wave of pleasure through her.

“Is this… supposed to protect me from flood shrapnel? That branch punched through your armor like it was nothing.” 

“Only because you were compromised.”   


The urge to retort flared up and died on Jaina’s tongue. Her stomach clenched, and she took another bite. 

“Unless you happened to place a telemancy beacon on that crate of rum," the Banshee continued, "I trust your ability to redirect further floods.” 

Jaina’s brows rose at the admission -- then furrowed in distrust. She swallowed. “This is to protect me from predators, then?”

“Yes. Bewitched ones, anyway.” 

She paused with another slice of fruit halfway to her mouth. “... _ what?”  _

“There is no shortage of prey here, nearly all of it more familiar and less troublesome than yourself -- and as both the panther and serpent were in perfect health, something or someone must have either altered them beforehand or directly compelled them to attack you.” 

 

...well fuck. 

 

That… raised more than a few questions. If Azshara wanted them dead, they’d be dead, so… 

Jaina glanced up at the Banshee, who sat opposite her, lounging against another root as if she weren’t half-covered in gore. 

“When you drained the snake,” Jaina asked, “Did you detect anything…  _ odd  _ about it?” 

_ Or has undeath robbed you of your magic sensitivity?  _

The Banshee regarded her coldly for a moment. Her ears angled ever so slightly against the sides of her head -- guarded? 

“No.”

“I’m going to need more to work with, if you want me to figure this out.” 

Blood red eyes glowed bloodier. “Will you now?”

On a whim, Jaina let a slight smirk curl her lips… and the Banshee’s eyes got brighter. Frustration? Annoyance? Either way, it confirmed her suspicion. 

“I suppose not.” 

She took a very smug bite of fruit. 

“Focus that clever mind on the problem at hand, Proudmoore.” 

She did -- and as she did, frowned deeper and deeper, cold dread coiling in the pit of her stomach. “Fel, druidic, or shadow magic could all be used to increase aggression in animals, while voodoo could be used for direct control. Fel and voodoo we can rule out -- they would have been obvious to me. This was either the work of a druid… or a servant of the Old Gods.”

The Banshee’s ears flicked. “And in light of the…  _ unfortunate  _ events in Stormsong Valley, I suppose you suspect the latter?” 

Jaina knew a taunt when she heard one. Rubbing in the extent of the Horde’s spy network… it was petty. 

“Focus that clever  _ tongue _ on the problem at hand, Warchief _.”  _

The Banshee arched one pale brow -- and Jaina realized what a  _ horrible  _ opportunity she’d just given. She braced for the taunt… but none came.

The Banshee simply watched her, unblinking. 

_ How are her eyes still bathed in shadow while in broad daylight?  _

She pressed on. “Yes. I do suspect shadow magic. But I can’t verify anything with my mana this depleted. And I’ll need a view of the stars. Whatever enchantments Azshara has cast on this island will surely prevent me portaling out, but I may still learn something from the attempt.”

“What makes you so sure the enchantments are Azshara’s work?”

Jaina blinked. That was… actually a good point. “We shall see.” 

The Banshee’s ears twitched, and she looked away, eyes narrowing. “Eat.” 

  
  
  


*****

  
  


Jaina hadn’t been this sore since the Mana Bomb. 

The creek was a good ways uphill from their last campsite. Other than Jaina’s unseemly panting and gasping, they hiked in silence -- literally, in the Banshee’s case. 

She idly wondered if it was elven stealth or simply a necromantic trick. 

Although… the Banshee’s ears seemed to have retained their sensitivity. Or been  _ restored  _ to sensitivity. Perhaps she’d prioritized certain functions, when fixing her body? Sight, sound, and muscular control were certainly more directly useful than magic sensitivity… but given the Banshee’s reaction to her ill-planned comparison the other day, Jaina was wary of trying to trick her into revealing any of the gruesome details. 

Or of any conversation where their outbursts might  _ mirror  _ each other like that. 

Jaina’s chest felt tight. 

She’d met so few people since Theramore who truly understood what it was to lose everything… and now here she was with one of the few who did, and to even broach the subject would be sticking her head in a wyvern’s jaws. 

But the thought wouldn’t leave her  _ alone.  _

For as much as she sometimes wished she hadn’t survived Theramore, she  _ had.  _ Her body and soul remained her own… and the pain of it  _ still  _ almost drove her to mass murder.  _ Would have,  _ had Kalec not intervened. 

And the Forsaken practically worshipped the Banshee. The Horde was beginning to fear and mistrust her. Did she have  _ anyone _ counseling her to be anything but warlike? Even as manipulative and  _ cruel  _ as Jaina had eventually realized Kalec to be… 

She grit her teeth. 

The less thought she spared him, the better. 

The less thought she spared the Banshee’s  _ emotions,  _ the better. She had no evidence whatsoever that they consisted of anything other than rage and pain… 

 

And yet some part of her, where the scholar and the diplomat and the survivor crossed like three leylines, could not stop speculating on the exact mix of violent emotions within her pact-mate’s head at the moment. 

For in the several hours since she woke, sore and grumpy and caked in mud, the Banshee had yet to taunt her. Even enraged at Jaina’s drunkenness, cruel mockery had been the first thing on her lips, and now she was…  _ stoic.  _

 

As before, she took point, weaving her way through the overgrown, uneven terrain with the effortless grace of a dancer as Jaina, covered in sweat, trudged unsteadily behind.

Strands of pale hair frayed from her bun, and around them her ears constantly twitched and swiveled, vigilant of the wilderness around them. 

Utterly silent. 

 

Jaina wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, only to send more mud-flakes tumbling over her face, catching on her eyelashes and lips. 

She huffed, and tried her best to ignore it. 

 

At length the slope began to even out, and the air became just slightly cooler. 

Ahead the Banshee halted. Waited. 

Legs trembling, Jaina grit her teeth and stepped up beside her. 

And promptly sighed in relief. 

Before them flowed clear, fresh water, glowing in the dappled light, several yards across and at least waist-deep.

 

“Go,” said the Banshee. “I’ll keep watch.”

 

She didn’t need to be told twice. In moments her staff lay beside the creek, and her boots quickly joined it. She spared a glance at the Banshee -- who hadn’t moved.

Jaina raised an eyebrow. 

So did the Banshee. “I will respect your human prudishness when we are no longer in mortal peril.” 

Jaina glared. 

“There may be something in the water, Proudmoore.”

“And you would be unable to detect it without looking? Quite the ranger you are.” 

The Banshee said nothing, just regarded her with all the expressiveness of a cold stone… but after a long moment, she turned away. 

Jaina blinked. That was… a  _ lot  _ less fight than she’d expected. 

_ Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.  _

She turned, but not fully, instead keeping the Banshee in the corner of her eye, a grim sentry in the shade.

Better to keep her in sight than to imagine those glowing eyes on her bare back. The thought alone sent a slight shiver through her. 

Jaina peeled her shirt off before she could start second-guessing herself, and waded into the creek. 

Cool water enveloped her legs up to the thigh, immediately soothing the heat and the itching cling of her sweat-soaked, mud-caked pants. A groan spilled from her lips unbidden. 

She sat, letting the water rise to her belly, and cupped some in her hands. 

It was halfway to her lips when the Banshee’s strangely resonant voice cut through her calm. 

“Don’t.” 

She looked. The elf still faced away from her. 

Jaina had been around plenty of elves, but that was… hm. Was her hearing really sharp enough to distinguish that small motion from the splashing of the creek? 

Or was there some other sense at play? Something linked to her vampiric abilities? 

Jaina stowed the thought away, and dropped her hands. 

“Is this not where you’ve been filling that waterskin?” 

“It is. The leather is laced with purifying elements.” 

Jaina frowned, and almost asked  _ why --  _ but held her tongue. Each question she asked was a gamble. 

The Banshee didn’t need to drink, but water could still be used to clean armor or weapons, or given to a living compatriot… 

“Give it to me, then.” 

“One task at a time, Proudmoore.”

Jaina glared at the back of the Banshee’s head for a moment. Then, with a whispered incantation, she pulled a small sphere of water from the creek and set it floating in the air before her. A wave of her hand sent violet energy buzzing through it, burning away any poison or parasite, and a contortion of her fingers froze it solid.

It fell into her palm, and she popped it into her mouth to drink as it melted. 

With that out of the way, she doused her shirt in the water, bunched it up, and scrubbed it against itself. Dark clouds of mud unfurled into the current. 

And still she felt the Banshee’s… well,  _ ears _ if not eyes, surely detecting every tiny movement, even unto her breath… 

It may as well have been a stare -- and, as always, nervousness coaxed words to Jaina’s lips.

“How far inland have you scouted?” 

“To the edge of the mists. Several leagues from here, uphill.” 

“Did you find anything out of the ordinary?”

“An absence of birds.” 

Jaina frowned. Birds  _ never  _ came anywhere near the Banshee -- no living animal did. 

Fucking elf-ears again… 

She tossed her shirt onto a rock and shucked off her trousers. “That could mean any number of things. Birds are sensitive to all sorts of environmental changes.”

“Yes. But to void magic more than others.”

...what? Jaina had never heard that before. “Says the ranger to the Archmage.”

For a moment, the Banshee said nothing. There was only the quiet splashing of the creek, the soft rustle of innumerable leaves… 

 

“I am an elf, Jaina.” 

 

She froze. When was the last time she heard her name in that… 

Oh. 

_ Oh.  _

“My people studied well the many fossils unearthed by the sundering -- and concluded that all avian species are descended from reptiles akin to those of Zandalar. Reptiles that were present on Azeroth  _ before  _ the arrival of the Old Gods. Those that survived to evolve only did so because they could sense void magic well enough to evade it.”

The words barely registered. Not in the face of the memory coursing through Jaina’s body, leaving shock and confusion in its wake. 

That night at the Violet Ballroom, those  _ exact words--  _

 

“You…” She turned, fully facing the Banshee. “You  _ remember?” _

 

A batlike ear flicked. “It would be difficult not to.” 

Something bloomed in Jaina’s chest, warm and quickening and-- 

“The role of Ranger-General did, unfortunately, involve mingling with vapid scholars for hours on end.” 

Oh. 

Disappointment settled over her, cold and heavy… and confusion coalesced into suspicion. 

_ Lord Admiral.  _

_ Proudmoore. _

_ Archmage. _

When had the Warchief last called her  _ Jaina?  _

Never. 

Another fucking  _ game.  _

Her lips curled into a snarl. “Do you think me a  _ fool, Banshee?”  _

“In what regard?” The elf spoke casually, as if discussing the weather _ \--  _ “Magic? No. Sailing? Certainly not. But not pressing your advantage after slaying Rastakhan? Yes, I suppose one might call that  _ foolish.”  _

“Of course you would. You must not even  _ recognize  _ compassion anymore.”

“Perhaps not. Though if  _ compassion  _ is to thank for giving me time to introduce the Zandalari to the wonders of modern artillery, I will be sure to keep an eye out for it going forward.”

That stung.  All the soldiers killed by the cannons and gatling guns now mounted on Zandalari ships… 

Casualties she could have prevented. 

 

“If only more of the Alliance was so kind-hearted.” 

 

A inarticulate, incendiary retort boiled to the front of Jaina’s mind, gritting her teeth and clenching her fists-- 

She turned away. Washed her pants.

  
  


*******

  
  


Sylvanas allowed herself a smirk. 

It had been worth a try… if only to glimpse past the Lord Admiral’s icy facade again. 

How easy it was to provoke her.

How foolish Sylvanas had been to ever envy the  _ emotionality _ of the living. 

What emotion had Proudmoore attached to that night in Dalaran, so many years ago?

And how might it be exploited? 

 

 


	10. To Flirt With Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HOLD ONTO YOUR BUTTS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m getting my first novel ready for publication, so updates will be slower.  
> Also ideas for Frostfire (my Horde Jaina AU fic, in which an Onyxia-manipulated Varian excommunicates Theramore from the Alliance after the Daelin Disaster & Jaina is bi for orcs) are rampaging through my brain rn. 
> 
> Also I don’t know jack about broken ribs or medical stuff I’m just here for the gay stuff ok? Don’t @ me

 

“Wait.” 

 

Jaina glanced back over her shoulder -- and found the Banshee sauntering towards her. 

She hunched forward, gathered her still-wet shirt over her chest and crossed her arms over it-- “What are you--” 

“Your ribs.” 

For a moment she stood frozen before the Banshee’s approach --the feline grace, the swaying hips, the unflinching, luminous stare-- 

Then she grit her teeth, and turned around. 

Crimson eyes dragged over her bare abdomen… much lower than they _needed_ to.  Jaina focused on standing tall, and _not_ on how closely her soaked trousers still clung. 

The Banshee held her hands out, palm-up, free of their gauntlets. 

“Sterilize them.” 

Jaina stood firm, chin up. “Where’s the danger?” 

The Banshee raised an eyebrow. 

So did Jaina. 

“I will heed your _commands_ when there is _danger,”_ she said. “And I see none.” 

Those pouting purple lips twitched ever-so-slightly. “You see no danger in getting blood and armor-grease on your wounds?” 

Jaina glanced down at the bruises covering her side. “My skin isn’t broken.” 

“Your eardrums are.” 

They stared each other down. 

Fighting back the urge to snarl (and resolving to spend less time around Genn once she’d escaped), Jaina flicked her wrist. Violet light snapped in and out of existence around the Banshee’s hands. 

Jaina would have made it burn, were she not wary of the smell that might produce. 

 

“I am going to touch you now.” 

 

Jaina was neither ready for those words nor sure how to respond to them beyond a choked: “Alright?” 

“I am _asking_ you not to freeze me again,” said the Banshee. 

 _You’re already frozen,_ Jaina didn’t say. It felt a little too… weighted. She hugged her shirt a little tighter to her chest. 

“Stop hunching. Stand up straight.” 

She did, jaw tight, and did her best to suppress the flinch she knew would come when those cold fingers met her skin. 

 

And if that touch hadn’t been so _gentle,_ maybe she might have succeeded. 

The Banshee’s eyes flared, just slightly -- and Jaina looked away, into the trees. 

“Does this hurt?” 

“A bit,” she gritted out. 

“How?” 

“It’s sore.”

“Tell me if the pain becomes sharp.” 

She was tempted to lie, if only to end the examination as quickly as possible. 

Only the mental image of a punctured lung stopped her.

The Banshee’s fingers pressed firmly but carefully, moving inch by inch over Jaina’s bruised skin, toward her--

“Ah--!” She hissed, ribs throbbing. The Banshee’s touch lightened, and moved on. 

 

The memory of Sylvanas’ voice --not the Banshee’s resonant drawl but _Sylvanas’_ voice--  guiding her through panic… 

There was a dull ache in her chest again. 

 

She almost would have preferred it if the Banshee were rough about this. Uncaring. 

She would _certainly_ prefer it if the Banshee’s hands were as unpleasantly warm as her own living body, rather than soothingly cool, every touch leeching just the tiniest bit of oppressive heat from her skin…

She wanted more of it. She wanted _none_ of it. 

And as always, from turmoil came the urge to speak, to question, to cut the tension with words. But _which_ words? To what end? No matter what she said, The Banshee would only deflect and mock and threaten and _lie._ The only topic for which Jaina could have _any_ expectation of honesty was-- 

Oh. 

Arthas. 

 

The Banshee’s fingers ghosted over her tender side, nearing her chest, and Jaina _shivered,_ and horrified by that blurted out: “I want to ask you something.” 

Tidesdamnit. 

 

The Banshee’s eyes narrowed… and the Smirk curled her lips anew. 

“And you fear my reaction? I’m… what is it you say in Kul Tiras? _Chuffed?”_

 

And just like that, Jaina  could no longer back down. “I’m _asking_ you not to destroy my eardrums.”

 

“Everything in my power, Proudmoore.” The Banshee’s gaze returned to her ribs, seemingly disinterested. 

Jaina faltered. What if that wasn’t enough? The mention of Arthas had already caused her to explode once -- and she was _much_ closer now. 

Except… wasn’t just the mention of him, was it? It was the _comparison._

So Jaina took a breath, and took a chance:

 

“What _did_ he do to you?”

 

The Banshee went still. But where Jaina expected rage, pain, or even just a telltale flare of those piercing eyes… there was nothing. The Banshee simply stared at her -- and spurred by sudden fear, Jaina kept talking. “Because you were right, I know nothing of it, and it seems to me that assumptions are a very dangerous thing for both of us, right now.” 

Still, nothing. 

Then the Banshee’s eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, as if searching for something in Jaina’s expression, until Jaina had to fight the urge to look away, to-- 

 

“Are you **_mad?”_** The Banshee sounded… genuinely _confused,_ but then she spoke again, the honeyed poison back in her voice. “Or simply desperate?” 

 

Earnest to devious. 

Interesting. 

 

Jaina titled her chin up, and held the Banshee’s terrible gaze. “Probably a bit of both, at this point. Are you going to answer my question?” 

The Banshee stared for another moment. Then her hands fell away from Jaina’s bare skin, and she stepped around her, like a great cat circling its prey, such that Jaina felt compelled to hold still and feign calm rather than turn and watch, even as the Banshee prowled behind her. 

“Lady Proudmoore… ever the scholar.” 

“What--”

Cool fingers brushed the side of her neck, sending another shiver down Jaina’s spine. They trailed up, cupping the angle of her jaw… and tipped her head. With her other hand, the Banshee slid the poultice from Jaina’s ear -- and replaced it with her voice, soft and husky.

“You are the very model of an Archmage.” Wispy hair tickled Jaina’s neck, and shoulders... 

“Driven to study every facet of anything that interests you.” She tipped Jaina’s head the other way, removed the other poultice-- “Or any _one.”_

 

Then she stepped past Jaina, and with a few swift, deft movements, unbuckled and removed her right pauldron. 

How she retained such muscle tone through death, Jaina had no idea. 

The left pauldron joined its mate atop a mossy rock. The Banshee unbuckled her breastplate. 

Jaina blinked, and glared. “What are you getting at?” 

The breastplate and plackart fell away, baring the Banshee’s slim waist, her broad shoulders, and all the smooth muscles of her back flexing as she lowered her armor to the-- 

“Jaina…” Her tone was scolding. She moved to her cuisse. “Did you really expect to slip away from a royal ball with the most eligible Lady of Quel’thalas on your arm and _not_ be talked about?” 

Oh.

Right. 

Yes. Mother had pitched quite the fit, about that. And some of the _looks_ she’d gotten, around Dalaran -- especially from high elves. Especially from high elf _women..._

The Banshee chuckled. 

One cuisse hit the mossy stone. “I still remember the rumors, of the _inquiries_ you began making after that night.” Both legguards off, she bent forward to remove her greaves -- giving Jaina a view she had no idea how to react to. “Of your sudden interest in elvish military history… ”

The Banshee turned to her then, that _impossible_ body clad in nothing but bandages and skin-tight purple leggings… and while looking Jaina in the eye, started removing the latter. 

“I was mocked ruthlessly, of course, my motives questioned…” 

Jaina wanted to look away. But she also wanted to stare, and this was _clearly_ an intimidation tactic. A challenge. 

So as the Banshee sat elegantly on the armor-strewn rock and peeled the fabric from her long, muscular legs, Jaina held her gaze. 

Thank the Tides she was at least wearing a loincloth. 

 _Fuck_ she was only wearing a loincloth-- 

“And now here we are.” She stood, eyes glowing brighter as they dragged up Jaina’s half-clothed body-- “ _Studying_ each other.” 

 

Heat pulsed low in Jaina’s belly. 

She wanted to run. She wanted to _fight._ She wanted to… 

She just glared. 

Smirking victoriously, the Banshee sauntered past her, into the water. Jaina smelled steel and floral spice.

“Keep watch, won’t you?”

It took great strength not to freeze her again. Instead Jaina turned away and watched the jungle, a hundred furious barbs and insults boiling to the surface of her mind. 

She hadn’t even been digging for anything… _strategically_ useful -- she hadn’t _meant_ it that way. She had asked an honest, innocent question, extended a fucking _olive branch_ the the _Butcher of Darkshore,_ the queen of the damned, and…

Fuck. What had she expected?

Hm. 

What did the _Banshee_ expect?

That was clearly meant to intimidate, to shake her, to-- to _fluster_ her. But it was still a _deflection._

Jaina’s jaw clenched involuntarily. Frustration and disgust and desperation burned like frostfire through her veins, and the words flowed sharp and vindictive from her lips. 

 

“You’re not wrong,” she said. 

 

“Oh? Do tell.” 

 _Fuck you._ “I do hyperfixate. It can be a blessing at times, a curse at others. Both, during the war in Northrend.” 

No response. 

“Dalaran never had many texts on necromancy, you see -- and what few they did have, Kel’thuzad stole away when he left. But Naxxramas… that was a treasure trove. Decades of research and experimentation, the collected knowledge of the Cult of the Damned… and me with a dire need to understand the horrors unfolding around me.” 

“Have you a _point_ you are trying to make, Proudmoore?” 

“You are unique -- a banshee with the powers of a lich and vampiric spiritual biology. That kind of combination… I can only _imagine_ what torture it must be.”

 

 **“Excuse me?”**  

 

“Being forced to take care of someone when you want nothing more than to devour their lifefo--” 

The air behind her went _frigid._

Jaina looked over her shoulder, and almost had a heart attack. 

 

The Banshee stood over her all but nude, less than an arm’s length between them, twists of black mist rising from her skin and eyes blazing, lips parted enough to bare just the tip of her fangs-- 

She looked...  _ravenous._

 

Jaina wanted to blast her away. She wanted to flee. 

But any movement whatsoever seemed a mistake perhaps a surrender, perhaps the final straw that would bring those fangs to her flesh-- 

The Banshee spoke, voice like the grave.

 

_“So it’s **madness** , then.” _

 

For a moment, Jaina stood very still -- but she studied the Banshee’s demeanor. The bared teeth, the blazing eyes, the twitching and clenching of her hands, the ears _not_ pinned back, but angled forward to catch any sound Jaina might make… 

So head held high, Jaina turned to face her.

She couldn’t have stopped the smirk if she wanted to.

 

“ _And_ desperation, it seems.” 

 

A choked hiss issued from the Banshee’s throat, and she bared her teeth entirely, eyes _overflowing_ with crimson light, such that Jaina could just barely see the movement of her pupils-- 

But that movement was unmistakable. 

The Banshee’s gaze flicked to Jaina’s lips. Her neck, collarbone, chest-- 

 

_Oh._

 

Heat raced down her spine, settled low-- 

Their eyes locked -- and out of fear or rage or something else, Jaina could not look away. Her breath caught in her chest. 

And then in the blink of an eye it was no longer an elf before her, but a whirlwind of dark mist, writhing away across the creek and into the shade of the forest beyond. 

When it coalesced, the Banshee stood facing away, one hand planted on a tree trunk before her, deep claw-marks scoring the bark. 

She did not move. Did not speak. 

Jaina’s heart would not slow down. Her hands were shaking… and why, she didn’t know. 

She sat on the rock, surrounded by sections of purple armor. 

 

The creek splashed. Wind rustled through the canopy. Far away, birds sang. 

Jaina focused on breathing. 

That was… 

She was… 

 

Oh Tides.  

She was _wet._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D 
> 
> BREAKING: Beautiful idiots try to get under each other's skin, end up getting under each other. More in a week.


	11. Restraint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hark! A plot!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE that I have added a content warning for suicidal ideation. It will be a minor part of the central plot. I did not intend it to be part of the plot when I started this, but rather arrived at it organically. Hopefully it won’t be a dealbreaker. As always, I write these sort of things to later show the character healing from them.

 

 

She barely registered the terrain up which they hiked. Thickets of bamboo and clusters of gargantuan aloe passed in a blur of humidity. Clouds of gnats scattered before the Banshee’s coming. 

Jaina’s peace of mind scattered behind.

 

She was no stranger to _tension._ That wasn’t it. 

She’d already lain with _one_ Warchief, albeit against her better judgement. She’d lain with a dragon _._ She’d _almost_ lain with the man who would become the Lich King’s _meat-puppet._

And all that irresistible attraction had seemed so terribly _inconvenient_ at the time. 

Ha. 

But with all of them, the tension had come gradually, slowly boiling over until she could no longer ignore it. 

 

It had never just fucking… _exploded into being._

 

_You’re an idiot, Jaina. An absolute bloody fool._

 

 _It was involuntary,_ she told herself. 

Reflexive.

A purely physical reaction -- and a perfectly logical result of her circumstances. It had been _years_ since she’d last known a lover’s touch -- years of stress and pain and rage without true relief… 

And then, loathe as Jaina was to admit it, the Banshee’s plan had _worked._ After months of living with Derek, she no longer had to fight back memories of Lordaeron or Northrend every time she saw skeletal hands, ashen skin, or unholy eyes.  She had grown accustomed to the undead… and now she was trapped on an island with the most cunning, most powerful, and most _beautiful_ of them all. 

 

And to think she’d once felt like a monster for lusting after orcs and dragons. 

At least Go’el and Kalec were _alive_ when she caught the urge to mount them. 

 

Up ahead, the Banshee stopped walking. Which wouldn’t have bothered Jaina if that hadn’t been her way of saying _hurry up_ for the last few hours, instead using her fucking words.

 

Jaina clenched her jaw. 

She wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or anxious. Nor was she sure she even _wanted_ to know what was going on in that head. 

Not that it stopped her from being curious. 

Swallowing an especially fowl string of curses, she worked her way up the rising slope, leaning on her staff, carefully planting her feet on sturdy roots and stones… 

From ravenous hunger to dead silence. Jaina doubted the Banshee felt anything like embarrassment, anything like _shame,_ so… what? 

Jaina’s first thought was _scheming,_ but… well, acting on her first thoughts had almost gotten her _eaten_ earlier, and she still wasn’t sure in which sense of the word. 

 

This time her mind betrayed her.

Suddenly, _vividly,_ she was imagining the Banshee kneeling nude before her, hands bound, glaring up in fury as she surrendered to her hunger in the only way their Pact would allow.

_Fuck._

That cursed heat flared back into the pit of her belly. She forced her face calm, her breathing even… 

Her heart was less cooperative. 

 

A few yards ahead, the Banshee’s ears twitched. 

 

“How much farther?” Jaina grit out, mostly to break the silence. 

“We’ll arrive before nightfall,” The Banshee said -- and nothing else. 

 

Ugh. 

It wasn’t the silent treatment _itself_ that bothered her. It was the fact that in the four days they’d been here, the only way Jaina had learned _anything_ about the Banshee was by _provoking_ her. 

Well, with the exception of her draining that snake. 

Jaina slipped on a patch of muddy ground, and caught herself by stabbing her staff into it. 

Up ahead, the Banshee paused again. Whether it was because she heard Jaina struggling or simply the Pact tugging on her, she didn’t show. 

But it _had_ tugged on her, the other day… so at least Jaina had confirmed that such magics still worked on the undead. That _could_ be useful… 

The snake, though -- what she’d done to it, and the wound that made it necessary -- _that_ was good. A strength, and within it a weakness. 

 

That errant tree branch might just end this fucking war. 

 

There was only one way, she now knew, to slay the Banshee for good: by restraining her away from anything she could suck the life from, and attacking her with overwhelming force. 

 

A week ago, knowing that would have felt no different than reading the reports of a battle won with high casualties. Neither despondent nor triumphant, but something in between. Things going according to plan. 

A week ago, Jaina wouldn’t have imagined slaying the Banshee _herself._  

And yet no victorious flame ignited in her at the thought -- no anticipation, no relief, no triumph. 

It just felt like…

 

It felt like storming Zuldazar. 

 

Like knowing that the flames in the harbor would spread to fishing vessels and trade ships, and that her actions would force hundreds of innocents to go hungry.

Like knowing that the soldiers she slaughtered were people just defending their home, people who had no say in their king’s decision to side with the Horde… 

It felt like that horrible wail of grief echoing out of the palace as she left -- the sound of a daughter finding her father murdered, stabbing into Jaina’s chest like the ghost of a knife. 

 

A waste. Necessary, unavoidable, _for the best_ \--

And still such a terrible _waste._  

 

A few yards ahead, the Banshee strode up the uneven slope with all the effortless grace of the woman she’d been… created from? Torn from? 

 _Carved_ from by that cursed blade? 

 

_You know nothing of what Arthas did to me._

 

And of _course_ asking about it backfired -- if the Banshee asked Jaina what the fall of Theramore was like, she’d be-- 

 

No. 

That was different. 

Obviously Jaina saw the similarities, she wasn’t a _complete_ fool -- but she had _survived it._ Her body remained her own, her _soul_ remained her own, even…

...even it she was forever changed by it.

_No._

She wasn’t enslaved, she wasn’t twisted into a **weapon.**

 

_I have to do this, Thrall._

No. 

_Blame me, Jaina -- ancestors know I do. But do not seek to buy vengeance for Theramore by killing my people!_

It was different.

**_People?_ **

It was _different._

 _They’re_ **_monsters._ **

She wasn’t _like_ that-- 

 _My father was_ **_right._ **

No no no why did she have to remember this _now--_

 _\--bloodthirsty animals,_ she’d said, and Thrall-- 

All the violence she was trying to unleash, and he still tried to _reason_ with her, and--

 _You only delay the inevitable,_ she’d told him. 

_You can’t beat me. Not while I have the Focusing Iris. It--_

Fuck.

_You can’t understand._

_You didn’t_ **_see it._ **

_You don’t know what it did-- to Theramore, to_ **_me--_ **

 

It hit like a punch to the gut. Knocked all the air from her lungs. 

It _wasn’t_ the same-- she hadn’t died, her soul remained her own-- 

\--and she _still_ almost became a monster. 

 

If she hadn’t fled Dalaran, when Arthas came… if she’d been twisted into a lich… would she have even half the _restraint_ the Banshee had shown, now? 

 

Part of her ached for the power to carve up a soul. To twist it, to change it, to _weaponize_ it, if need be… 

Anything to cut away this fucking _compassion._

 

Up ahead, the elf stopped walking again. 

Her ears were flat against to the sides of her head.  

She did not speak. 

 

*******

 

Sylvanas’s mind was as restless as the rest of her. Moreso, even -- her body would at least sit still when she wasn’t using it, but her thoughts? They were _incessant_ \-- constantly writhing around each other or crackling through her or boiling over, examining every event and action and word and planning for a dozen shades of worst case scenario… 

All while she was outwardly quiet as the grave. 

 

Jaina Proudmoore’s mind, on the other hand, was **_loud._ **

 

Her heartbeat sped and slowed and sped again, seemingly at random. Her breathing went from winded panting to quick, shallow gasps, and stopped entirely for long moments as she tried to tame whatever thought was torturing her. Her teeth clicked together as she clenched and unclenched her jaw, and she swallowed _much_ more often than Sylvanas suspected was necessary. 

It was infuriating.

Sylvanas refused to let herself speculate on what the woman was thinking. That way lay madness. 

_Belore._

She had meant to use the ghost of Proudmoore’s teenage infatuation _against her._ To punish that insipid curiosity and dissuade further prying… but that _hitch_ in her breath at Sylvanas’ proximity? The quickening of her pulse as her gaze fluttered to Sylvanas’ mouth, the parting of those pretty lips? The splotchy flush spreading over her face, her neck, her collarbones and chest-- 

It was unmistakable. 

 

The Lord Admiral was _attracted_ to her -- and in her shock, intoxicated as she was by that wretched vital _warmth,_ Sylvanas had looked too openly and too long, betraying her hunger.

 

Proudmoore had called her out, and she had _immediately_ proven the little fool right… but they’d both shown their cards, hadn’t they?

And Proudmoore’s were clear: something had unraveled in the little mage’s mind. Something --or perhaps many things-- had planted the seed of madness. 

That too was unmistakable. 

For who but a madwoman would lust after a corpse?

Who but a madwoman _could?_

 

*****

 

The sun was low when they reached the outcropping. Millennia ago, the huge stone might have towered beside its mist-wreathed siblings further inland, but it had long since fallen and been consumed by the jungle and the earth beneath, such that now only its peak jutted out far enough to pierce the canopy. Countless rains had worn it smooth. In life, Sylvanas would have struggled to find a grip. In death, she didn’t need one. She leapt, and then seized her body and  _pulled_ it the rest of the way up.

Far out, over the treetops that covered the slope all around, the sun was just touching the horizon, dyeing the sky around it orange and pink in a way Sylvanas suspected might have seemed fiery to living eyes.

Below, Proudmoore staggered into the shadow of the rock and sat, panting like a hound, heart beating like a war drum, vital warmth radiating up around the stone… 

 

She was what the sun _should_ have felt like. 

 

Perhaps… 

No. 

It would be so _easy_ to-- 

**_No._ **

She’d been inches from _mauling_ the woman. If she’d been even slightly closer, if she’d lingered even an instant longer, if she’d been even slightly _weaker…_

Sylvanas caught a growl before it could escape her throat. Forced it down. Un-clenched her jaw before it could break beneath the force of her frustration. 

Then she schooled her voice flat, and called down: 

 

“I’m going to bring you food. Don’t do anything foolish while I’m away.” 

 

And as she stalked off into the trees, she could have _sworn_ she heard Proudmoore’s teeth grind. 

She didn’t have to force the smirk, this time. It came naturally. 

 

 

*******

 

 

Frigid, salty water slapped Jaina in the face, wrenching her from her doze. 

_What—?_

Another, getting in her mouth, making her hack and cough and almost lose her grip on the mast of the _Peacemaker._

Oh. 

Right. 

But— the island, the Banshee, the _pact,_ what—? 

That… _couldn’t_ have all been some kind of mana-depletion-fever-dream. She’d slept, _dreamed,_ awoken, felt the Banshee’s touch and... 

It had all been so vivid. 

But around her floated the wreckage of her ship, and beneath her the sea heaved up, rocking the mast such that the ropes with which she’d tied herself to it tugged tight, squeezing the air from her lungs for a moment before loosening. 

And again. And again. 

All while the water leeched away her body heat. 

She couldn’t feel her toes or her fingers. She could _barely_ feel her legs, less and less with each wave… 

If only her gift had been for fire magic. 

No. 

If only she’d _studied_ harder, dedicated time to overcoming the challenge instead of hyperfixating on what came easier to her, then… 

Then she’d be able to keep herself warm for a few days before she drowned. 

This _couldn’t_ be her end.

She’d only just reconnected with mother and Tandred after all these years. It couldn't end like this, out here with no one to-- 

 

_Jaina…_

 

She whipped her head around, searching for the source… and found none. 

 

_Do not despair._

 

A whisper, impossibly faint, from no direction in particular-- 

 

_You are not alone._

 

Something moved in the corner of her eye. 

She looked -- and froze. 

There were no ropes around her. 

 

Only tentacles. 

 

_Ohhh no no no no--_

 

And they were pulling her-- 

 

Down.

 

Her fingers were too numb, slipping on the wet wood, and there was no strength left in her hands or her arms or her core or-- 

She gasped for air, sucking in as much as she could-- 

 

Icy waters closed over her face. 

She shut her eyes reflexively. 

 

_No._

What--? 

_Look._

By fear or shock or something else, she did, without thinking-- 

 

And saw bodies. 

Dozens of them. 

Humans and elves and dwarves and draenei in Alliance uniform.

Her _crew._

Oh Tides.

 

_The Tides cannot help you now._

 

No no no no

 

 _Only_ **_we_ ** _can help you._

 

She kicked and thrashed against the tentacles, but they only slithered tighter, pinning her arms to her sides and winding around her neck and dragging her deeper, down past the corpses of her crew, until her ears popped and she could see nothing but a tiny point of light above-- 

 

And then the voice spoke again, no longer a whisper and no longer alone. An abyssal chorus as deep and infinite as the crushing dark around her, _engulfing_ her, impossibly _loud--_

 

**_Do you want to be free?_ **

 

What? 

Yes, _please—_

 

**_And yet you bound yourself to her._ **

 

_I had to--_

 

**_She is death to all things._ **

 

_Not to me, not yet--_

 

**_Death to everyone you love…_ **

 

_No no not if I--_

 

**_...and you would FREE her?_ **

 

_It was the only way--_

 

**_You know what you must do, Jaina._ **

 

_No_

 

**_Break from this cowardly pact._ **

 

_It’s not cowardly, it--_

 

**_Defeat her forever._ **

 

_I can’t—_

 

**_You CAN._ **

 

_But Vereesa—_

 

Twin points of light pierced the darkness. 

 

Eyes. Familiar eyes, not their usual silvery violet but a bright and bloody red, and the face around them--

_Oh tides no_

Vereesa’s face was gaunt, her cheekbones too sharp and her skin so horribly, deathly pale-- 

 

And then she was gone, swallowed by the deep. 

 

**_You can end this war._ **

 

A flash in the darkness. 

Another -- a _muzzle_ flash, flame bursting from a flintlock and illuminating its wielder -- brass buttons and golden lapels and a haggard blonde beard-- 

Tandred. 

He fired again, and readied his cutlass, and beside him Katherine Proudmoore wiped blood from her face and drew her own two pistols, cocked the hammers, and took aim at the hulking figures that were closing in around them. Jaina saw tusks and horns and axes and spears and— 

 

_LOK’TAR OGAR!!_

 

And then nothing. 

 

**_You can save them, Jaina._ **

 

_Please stop, PLEASE I—_

 

Another light -- neither flashing nor glowing but _blooming,_ soft and warm, chasing the cold from Jaina’s bones… 

Not _a_ light. _The_ Light, shining like an infant sun in the hollow of Shalamayne. 

The blade lay across Anduin’s lap as he sat on his throne, head bowed as if in prayer, eyes shut… 

And then the warmth receded. 

The light faded from golden yellow to cold, icy blue. 

 

_No no no_

 

**_You can save them all._ **

 

He opened his eyes — and they were _not_ his eyes, that glacial glow, that bloodless skin-- 

 

Anduin raised Frostmourne, and stepped toward her with a smile.

 

**_All you need to do is DIE._ **

 

 

 _“No!!”_ Jaina sat up, ribs aching, heart pounding-- 

 

And awake. 

 _Truly_ awake, this time. 

 

_Fuck._

 

A tear leaked from her eye. 

Then the smell of roasting meat wafted over her, and her stomach clenched. In an instant, she was salivating. 

 

“For future reference,” Said the Banshee, “If you fall asleep without having eaten, should I wake you?” 

 

She sat not three yards away, forearms braced against her thighs, eerie visage lit by the small fire before her — over which she held a skewer laden with sizzling, dripping meat. 

Her eyes reflected no firelight. 

“What…” Jaina’s voice came out weak and shaky and she _hated_ it. “What does the Pact say?” 

The Banshee said nothing for a moment. A faint breeze pulled at her ghostly hair, and cooled the sweat plastering Jaina’s own to her face and neck…

“It has been a suggestion, rather than a command. At first barely perceptible, but waxing as you tossed and turned.” 

Hm. Was that because she was hungry, or because… 

 

“Well?”

 

The Banshee pulled the skewer away from the flame, and held it out toward her. 

Without actually looking at her. 

Jaina bit back a swear. “You left me to toss and turn despite my ribs?”

“All this time together,” Said the Banshee, “And you haven’t noticed my love of hyperbole? At _worst_ I left you to twitch and whimper.” 

“Oh good,” said Jaina, rolling onto her hands and knees to avoid further jostling her ribs. “We’re back to petty insults. So much more _mature_ than the silent treatment.” 

She stood, stepped over, and snatched the skewer from the Banshee’s hand. Sat on a tree trunk that had become wedged between the great stone outcropping and the florid ground beneath it. 

The sky, though dark, was beginning to pale. In an hour or so the sun would rise. 

Her heart was still beating fast. What in Light’s name _was_ that…

No. She knew what it was — she’d read far too many SI:7 reports not to. Reports coming out of Stormsong, Nazmir… 

Fuck. 

_Fuck._

Metal scraped against rock as the Banshee turned to fully face her — and looked Jaina in the eye for the first time in the better part of a day. 

 

“Ask your questions.” 

 

Jaina blinked. “...what?” 

“The curiosity you’ve been so utterly failing to hide.” The Banshee was expressionless, and did not move save to speak— “Whatever dire secrets you think will help you salvage the mess you’ve made of your war campaign. Ask, and I will answer, and you can decide which answers to believe, and we can be _finished with this_ _game.”_

Jaina stared. She was… offering—? 

After all the mockery and cruelty and _stress_ she’d put Jaina through, she was _offering_ an earnest dialogue? 

The urge to throw it in her face was _ardent,_ all but irresistible— 

But then Jaina wondered… and a satisfied smirk spread across her lips.

 

“Why now?” 

 

The Banshee’s eyes flared bright, brighter than the embers round the edges of the fire. 

Still no expression. 

And Jaina couldn’t help herself -- she finally had the upper hand. “Is it because I know what you want?”

There-- a twitch of the ears, a wrinkling of the nose, fangs in the firelight-- 

 

“You have no _idea_ what I want.” 

 

“So tell me.” 

 

“We’ve already nearly killed each other twice, Proudmoore.” The Banshee’s voice was cold and hard. “If we continue like this we won’t last a week -- much less _escape_ this cursed place.” 

With a flick of her fingers, Jaina set the skewer levitating beside her, leaned forward to mirror the Banshee’s posture, and pressed the issue. “What do you want?” 

No expression.  

“Many things. Be specific.” 

Very well. Jaina sat back, plucked the skewer from the air, and took a bite. 

It took some effort not to moan at the taste… and that last spark of irritation spurred her to take her time savoring it while the Banshee watched. 

The Warchief looked away. 

“The _Banshee’s Wail,”_ Jaina ventured, “What was it doing out there? Where were you going?”

“It was a trap for you. Obviously.” 

Alright, confirmation was a start. At least the spy she must have had on the _Peacemaker_ went down with the ship. “And what would you have done, if all went well?” 

“Why would I tell you that?” Said the Banshee. “There are only so ways to trap an archmage. I’d rather not waste one.” 

Fair. 

“When that branch hit you,” Jaina said. “You were limping. Was that due to pain, or physical damage to the necessary muscles and tendons?” 

“Oh, was that a bluff yesterday? About knowing my… what did you call it? _Spiritual biology?_ If so, it was quite good.” 

“As I said. You’re unique.” 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Lady Proudmoore.” 

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“My spine,” Said the Banshee. “The branch had pierced my spine.”

 

Oh. 

_Ow._

That… implied an incredible degree of control over her body — so it really _was_ a puppet, of sorts... unless she was lying, to trick Jaina into being predictable in their future battles. She’d walked for hours with that branch in her. A few minutes of combat would be no challenge at all… 

Jaina took another bite — and paused. Chewed. Swallowed. 

“The snake,” She said. “Did you actually need to… _consume it_ that way? Or was that just to disgust me?”

“Well, it was also delicious.” 

Jaina’s first impulse was to file that as a lie… but what if it wasn’t? If she was at all like those San’layn the Kirin Tor had captured… 

 

“...you can only taste living flesh and blood, can’t you?” 

 

The Banshee’s eyes blazed, and a note of threat bled into her voice. “Something like that." 

 

…perhaps it was best to revisit the personal questions later. 

 

“The Alliance. What do you want with the Alliance?”

“Have I not been clear enough in my actions?”

“You are many things, Banshee, but _transparent_ isn’t one of them.”

“I want nothing to do with the Alliance. But I will do anything to neutralize your ability to threaten my people.”

“Your people?”

“The Horde.” 

Jaina didn’t believe that. “Then why command the Horde to commit such atrocities? The unity that makes them strong is rooted in _honor.”_

And at last, the Banshee’s poker face broke. She bared her fangs in something that was not quite a grin, not quite a snarl-- “You think you know the Horde?”

“I know what it used to be -- what it _can_ be under the right rulership.”

“Do you now?” Alright, it was definitely a grin now, why-- “Color me impressed.” 

Jaina frowned. What was she…? 

 

“You must be excellent at multitasking, to have absorbed so much information during your… _clandestine_ visits to Orgrimmar.” 

 

Oh. 

Her and Thrall. 

 _Fuck,_ how did-- 

 

“Don’t worry.” The Banshee’s grin shrank back to a smirk, and she waved a hand dismissively. “I haven’t yet had sufficient reason to mention it. Although, given Saurfang's last known heading..."

“You said you would answer my questions,” Jaina spat. 

“I don’t recall promising to be docile for it.” 

_Don’t let her bait you, Jaina, don’t let her do it—_

“The other day,” She managed, “You claimed you believed war between the factions to be inevitable. Unavoidable.” 

“And?”

“I understand why you might think so.” 

The smirk vanished entirely. “I doubt that.” 

“Anduin’s court is full of embittered veterans, men who remember the sack of Stormwind, to say nothing of Greymane.”

“Yes,” Said the Banshee. “Please don’t.” 

She ignored that, forged on-- “And many Night Elves have still not forgiven the Horde for Hellscream’s actions -- _both_ Hellscream’s actions. Neither have I.”

“Please, tell me more things I already know.” 

“Tidesdammit, _listen to me.”_ The fire flickered a bit. “There was time no elf in Azeroth would stand beside a Troll, much less _fight alongside_ them. There was a time no orc would even _think_ of obeying a non-orc, when no Tauren would abide the presence of undead—”

“I’m _well aware.”_

“—and yet—”

 **_“And yet,”_ **Said the Banshee, “Look at us now? Is that what you’re going to say? Look at what we can overcome with a common goal? A common enemy?”

“If you’ll let me _finish—”_

“The Legion was the common enemy of _every being on Azeroth_ and that _rabid dog_ you allow to lead Gilneas _ignored the threat_ in favor of a personal vendetta! **_That_ **is the strength of the grudges that fester in the boy king’s court.”

 _“I’m not denying that!_ I just—”

 **_“I said—”_ ** The Banshee bared her teeth, and averted her eyes, and Jaina heard leather creak and metal grind against metal— “That I would answer your questions. I did not consent to be _preached at.”_

Jaina held her tongue, though it pained her. Maybe, _maybe_ she could get somewhere useful with the Banshee, but no. This wasn’t the way. She may never get an opportunity like this again, she needed to... 

Needed to… 

“Very well,” She said, and took another bite of meat. 

 

_She is death._

 

Jaina swallowed. “Tell me, then. If we hadn’t made this Pact, if there was no magic restraining you in this moment… what would you do?”

The Banshee’s eyes blazed. The poker face returned. “If we had not made this Pact, you would have died the instant you compared me to Arthas.”

...yes. That Jaina believed. 

“Then you would be trapped here,” She replied. 

“I _am_ trapped here.”

“You’re being rather evasive.” 

“She says to the _ranger.”_

Jaina took a deep breath. “You _said_ you would—”

 _“In this moment,”_ The Banshee grit out, “Were there no magic restraining me…”

Her haunting gaze dragged up and down Jaina’s form. 

 

“I would restrain myself.”

 

_...from doing what?_

Jaina’s mouth was dry again. “Why?” 

“I have no Val’kyr with me.” 

Oh. 

But… “You don’t need a Val’kyr to raise someone.”

“No,” Said the Banshee. “Not if I want a mindless ghoul.”

“And…” Jaina wet her lips. “...what would you make of me?” 

Those embrous eyes tracked the movement, ever-sharp. Then the rise and fall of Jaina’s chest. Then: “As I said. Believe what you wish.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

Again, the poker-face broke — just slightly, just the faintest crimson flare, the faintest furrow between her brows— 

“What do you want to _hear,_ Proudmoore? That I would forge you into the most devastating weapon in my arsenal? That I would turn you into a sleeper agent? That I would make you my second in command, my successor?” 

The smirk returned, prouder and crueler than ever.

 

“My _queen?”_

 

She may have well have spat at her. Without thinking, Jaina surged to her feet, hands clenched into fists. “I want the _truth!”_

The Banshee sat back as if enjoying the view.

“Why? So you can pick and choose what to believe and forget the rest?” 

 _“You_ suggested that, _Banshee!_ ”

The Warchief did not leap to her feet — she stood, calm and resolute save for that hellish glow— 

“I _suggested_ nothing. I only _described_ what you would have done anyway, what you are doing **_now.”_ **

Jaina forced herself not to conjure frostfire. “Why would I do anything else? What reason have you given me to trust _anything you say??”_

 **_“None!”_ ** Roared the Banshee. “I have given you _no reason at all,_ and **_still_ ** _you--”_

 

She snapped her head to the side as if slapped, looking away… and Jaina realized how close they were standing. There was barely an arm’s length between them, when had she— 

Jaina stepped back. 

The Banshee’s hand twitched. A muscle flexed in her jaw, and then… 

Her shoulders lowered, as if relieved. 

 

The fire sputtered in the breeze. 

 

Jaina swallowed dryly. “...still I what?” 

 

The Banshee did not look at her, and neither did she move for a dozen thumps of Jaina’s heart.

Then she straightened up, clasped her hands behind her back, and said in completely flat voice: 

“This place. The view of the stars, the ocean. Will it serve your purposes?” 

Jaina blinked. What…? “Yes.” But she— “I wasn’t _done.”_

 

“I am.” 

 

Fuck. Jaina know she couldn’t let this slip through her fingers, but all that came out was: “Well. At least you’ve told me more than you meant to.” 

This woman was driving her mad. 

“Get us out of here,” Said the Banshee, “And I will answer every insipid question you can think of.” 

 

With that she turned and started down the slope. 

 

Fuck. 

Jaina hadn’t even told her about the dream— which now that she thought of it didn’t even make _sense._ Azshara had stranded them here _alive_ , so why was her master now…? 

_Fuck._

She grit her teeth. 

 

“Banshee.” 

 

No response. No reaction. The Dark Lady kept walking. 

 

_“Warchief.”_

 

That did it. Slowly, casually, the Banshee slowed and stopped. But she did not turn around. 

Jaina wondered if she’d always had such control of herself, or if it were a… more _recent_ development. 

Alright, she had to frame this right, but… 

 

“Well? Out with it.”

 

Fuck. 

Jaina closed her eyes. “Since first learning of the Old Gods ten years ago…” She swallowed. Clenched her hands into fists atop her thighs. “SI:7 has recorded over a thousand cases of their influence on sapient beings.”

Silence.

Jaina looked — and found the Banshee’s batlike ears perked up, angling to hear more without turning around. 

“I can only assume,” She went on, “That the Dark Rangers and Siame-Quashi have done the same.”

 

“Have you a point?”

 

“And a question.”

Silence. 

“In what percentage of the cases recorded by your networks,” She said, “Have the Old Gods attempted to compel the subject to take their own life?” 

The Banshee’s head turned just slightly to the side, not enough for line-of-sight, but—

She turned around, and looked Jaina in the eye. 

 

“Less than ten percent.”

 

Then she started back up the slope, strides long and swift. “When they wish a target eliminated, it is easier to compel someone to murder than to suicide. And they cannot influence corpses, even those that still walk. They prefer to corrupt. Control.” She stopped a few strides away. “The more powerful the subject, the more this is true.” 

 

This time, when she looked Jaina over it was neither luring nor hungry… but searching. 

 

Jaina nodded. 

SI:7 had recorded the same, give or take a few percentage points. 

She forced her voice to be strong, to be even: “Then either N’zoth wants you dead  _desperately_ enough to completely forego its usual subtlety…” 

“Or,” Said the Banshee, “There is something on this island it would rather we not find.” 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra points if you caught the naughty foreshadowing ;)


	12. Lie to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quest begins.  
> The Banshee plays a new game.

 

 

Another fruit thudded to the ground several feet away. 

Tossed by the Banshee. 

Who hadn’t come within ten yards of her since last night. 

Jaina glanced over. 

Her pact-mate stood leaning against a far tree trunk, arms crossed, the glow of her eyes illuminating her cheekbones as she stared straight ahead. Her ears were angled straight up.

Jaina looked away. Cut a slice out of the fruit, and took a bite. Drank from the Banshee’s water-skin. 

 

_I would restrain myself._

 

 

Reminded herself the Banshee was talking about _killing_ her. Draining the life from her, raising her as a lich... 

_\--My **Queen--** _

She took another bite. Sweet juices spilled into her mouth, coated her lips, and dripped down her chin.

She crossed her legs. 

  
  
*****

 

A basic frost-runed tetragram carved into the ground cooled the surrounding air enough for her to doze through the afternoon.

Mercifully, she didn't dream. 

When she woke again it was dusk, the sun slanting bloody orange through the canopy and the shadows spreading, deepening… 

From her vantage point atop the slope, Jaina found herself reminded of that beach in Drustvar that Lucille had shown her -- a small cove where the tides were especially gentle. She’d waded in, eyes open, and the light through the surface had been… not dissimilar to this. 

There too, she had felt or imagined dark tendrils circling around her, slithering close but never touching.

Yet again she yearned for the magic sensitivity of an elf. A _living_ elf.  

She wondered if the Banshee did too. 

 

Perhaps that was why Jaina had said what she did, about the hunger. 

_You’re a bloody fool, Jaina_

The High Elves that occasionally approached her, drawn by the lingering effects of the Mana Bomb, were always polite about it. Apologetic. They just wanted to be near her, to bask in the energies she couldn’t help but emanate.

Never to _devour_ her.

 

_She is death to all things_

 

Jaina had let herself be tricked by the Banshee’s face. Her form. 

All a lovely mask. 

She was an elf no longer. She was _Sylvanas_ no longer.

Jaina knew that, she _did,_ she just… 

Ugh. 

She just had to force herself not to fucking _contemplate_ it anymore until she was free of this place. 

Until _they_ were free of this place. 

Tandred and mother flashed through her mind, bloodied, pistols raised-- 

She took a deep breath. Looked up. 

The Banshee was gone from her earlier spot. Jaina swallowed back the reflexive swell of anxiety and sat up, gritting her teeth against the ache in her ribs.

_Thunk._

A pile of tree branches struck the ground next to her -- all cut to the same length. The Banshee kneeled over them without sparing Jaina a glance, and with one metal-clad finger severed the cord that bound the wood. In moments, she had it arranged in a rudimentary pyramid. 

Then she stepped away, and made again for the trees. 

Jaina bit back the insults, the barbs, and the curiosity, and cast. 

 

When the logs were wreathed in crackling flame, she emptied the pouch of herbs the Banshee had brought that morning, and cast the leaves into the fire. Bitter, floral fumes wafted up into the night air. 

“Lucky you were able to find these here,” She ventured. 

The Banshee said nothing. Jaina looked up, and could not find her. 

Whatever.

She was probably just pissy because this was a Tauren method. She probably thought SI:7 had tortured it out of some poor shaman. Not that Jaina was going to correct that misconception. She wasn’t in any hurry to be mocked for missing Baine. Or Cairne. 

 

She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Another. 

The scent of burning herbs filled her senses, easing and softening the edges of her mind… 

She focused on the heat of the fire before her. The cool of the night behind. The feel of the stone beneath her hands, firm beneath the soft of moss… 

To no avail. 

She couldn’t sense anything.

 

_You can_

 

She jolted, snatching her hands off of the stone as if burned. 

Fuck. 

That… that was fine. It only happened when her mind was altered. This wasn’t like the cases in Stormsong and Nazmir. 

Not yet, at least. 

With a whispered word, mana glowed to the surface of her hand, and there crystallized into a layer of frost -- a shield, with which to reach into the fire. 

Carrying a small, charred length of wood, Jaina began her hike to the top of the outcropping. 

It was frustrating. 

Her mana may have been nearly regenerated, but the abused tissues of her torso were not. The ascent was steep and uneven, such that she had to wind back and forth and occasionally blink forward to avoid climbing outright. Every step pulled at the lattice of muscles around her ribs. By the time she reached the great rock’s apex, her breaths could not come fast or deep enough. It was all she could do to kneel before her legs gave out. 

At least there was a cool breeze up here, humid as it was. 

Jaina set down her chunk of wood. Breathed clean air. Listened. 

No more whispers came.

 

In the time it took her to make the fire, meditate, and hike up, the sun had set. Now the moons shone bright and pale over the distant sea, their light shimmering across the waves… 

The Kal’dorei and Tauren alike regarded them as mother and daughter... but they’d always reminded Jaina of a kindly old sailor her father kept around, blind in both eyes but quick and wise of tongue. One eye had been his own, scarred and milky-pale, while the other was made of glass... 

Even thirty years later, every so often she looked up and felt watched over. 

Here, though, after that _dream…_ she just felt watched. 

And… was it just her, or were the stars… _dimmer_ than they should be?

Tides, what she would have given for an arcane spectrometer right now.

Or, again, a living elf.

She breathed deep, and held it for a count of eight. Let it go. 

Then she picked up the blackened branch, and began to etch. 

_“Anar’kal-alah… su dinoriel shala… anu’dorini talah.”_

Into each curving line she poured her mana, such that every particle of carbonized wood glowed in the moonlight.

 _“I_ _shnu oshalan thara dormil... shal myrinan ishnu daldorah…”_

Next came the runes -- runes of opening, runes of passage, and the syllables _Bo Ra Lus_ rendered in archaic Darnassian. 

With that she stood, and struck her staff against the stone with an echoing _thok--_

_“Andu dinoriel tal!”_

The markings flared, and above them violet light sparked and flashed, coalescing into a single luminous point around which the air rippled. 

The tiniest breach in reality, trying to collapse--

But Jaina didn’t need the portal to _open --_ she just needed the spell to endure long enough for her to analyze why it _wouldn’t._

She angled her staff at the nascent spell, focusing her mana into a surge of frost that stilled the air molecules around the breach, letting it flare again, brighter, growing into a tiny ring-- 

 

She closed her eyes. 

With the herbs loosening the boundaries of her mind, she could just barely feel the arcane surging around her, like a song just beyond hearing, resonating It hummed through the stone beneath her feet, through the air around her, swelling for a single note before it was snuffed out-- 

But that note echoed South. 

 

Jaina let go. 

 

The spell collapsed in an instant, the air dancing through her hair as it rushed back into place-- 

And then there was darkness. 

She let out a slow breath. 

“Banshee.” 

 

Nothing. 

 

Right. “Warchief.” 

With a sudden, violent fluttering noise, the Banshee surged up over the lip of the rock, all billowing necrotic smoke and lashing tendrils and searing red eyes—

And then in an instant, it all writhed back into a humanoid shape. 

The moonlight glowed in her hair, which… was rather thin. 

Was that why she had always worn the hood? To hide the less fearsome aspects of what death had done to her? 

 

“I’m listening.” 

 

Jaina swallowed dryly. “I’ve found our heading.” 

“Oh?”

“My portal spell wasn’t intercepted, it was _nullified._ Nullifying fields are generated either by mages or by artifacts created and enchanted to act as physical anchor points… and the nearest of those trapping us here is due south.”

The Banshee did not react, save to say: “At daybreak, then.” 

Jaina frowned. “The anchors can’t be what N’zoth wants to remain hidden — they’re merely protecting it.”

A whisker-like brow arched ever-so-subtly. “Are you suggesting we investigate something powerful enough to frighten an Old God _without_ an escape strategy?”

“Of course not _,_ I just—” Blood rose to Jaina’s cheeks. “Excuse me for trying to approach this in a collaborative manner.” 

 

She should know better by now.

 

The Banshee did not respond to that. Merely stared, grim and fierce and bloody red—

But Jaina would not be cowed. 

Not again.

She crossed her arms over her chest. 

Dark lips curled back, baring fangs to the pale moonlight— 

The Banshee turned away. Crouched. Sat on the stone.

“You should rest.” 

 

Jaina chewed the inside of her cheek. 

 

Part of her was reflexively offended by the distance, even though she knew better, but… well, the vampires she’d captured in Northrend had never even _tried_ to restrain themselves. 

Was the hunger really so fierce that even being _near_ Jaina was too great a temptation? 

And… how much of it _was_ vampiric? 

The way her gaze _burned_ over Jaina’s lips, her neck, her chest… 

Was it just the blood within that had drawn her eye? 

The Ranger-General’s infamous love of women couldn’t have survived her death. 

...Could it have? 

And of it _had…_ what then? 

Would it be at all distinguishable from the soul-hunger, or… _intermixed?_

 

For a moment Jaina lingered, watching the back of the Banshee’s head — the messy topknot, stray locks ghostly in the moonlight, the exposed length of her slender neck, her ears angled down… 

Even in death, her hearing was far keener than Jaina’s — that much was obvious. But what of the ears themselves? Would they flick away if touched, like those of a cat? 

 

“Have you something to say, Proudmoore?” 

 

Jaina jolted. Tore her eyes away. 

The night air was cool on her burning cheeks. 

“Just more incessant questions,” She sniped back. 

 

It didn’t sound as sharp as she’s wanted it too. 

 

“Oh?” The Banshee turned her head ever-so-slightly — not enough to meet her eyes, but enough to signal her attention. “Anything sensible, this time? Or do you just feel like _preaching_ again?”

 

Anger prickled hot over Jaina’s skin —and before she could second-guess it, she had taken a step toward the Banshee. 

“You say that as if I’m the only one who’s done so.” 

The Banshee didn’t move. “How observant of you.” 

Jaina clenched her jaw.

Held her tongue.

Pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“Look,” She said, “I know we’re not going to see eye-to-eye on… most things—”

“And still you talk.” 

 _Go fuck yourself._ “Will you just answer _one thing_ honestly?” 

The Banshee turned, then, eyes overflowing with bloody light, face utterly neutral. 

Jaina crossed her arms once more. “Would you ever even _consider_ peace?” 

 

“Of course.” 

 

Oh. 

What?

 

“The Draenei are reasonable, _wise_ even, and more desirous of peace than any other people in the Legion’s wake. And the Dwarves would be perfectly content to lock themselves away in their strongholds and ignore the rest of the world, were it not for their obligations to the boy king’s pack of warmongers. I would _consider_ making peace with both nations… _if_ they left the Alliance.” 

“What? Why would they?” Jaina took another step closer, caught a twitch of the Banshee’s ears— “When you’re doing everything you can to terrorize the world?” 

“Precisely.” 

Jaina’s fingernails dug into her palms. “You—”

“The moment I ordered my armies into Ashenvale,” Hissed the Banshee, “I was prepared to see this war to the end. Were you _not,_ when you set sail for Zuldazar?” 

 

Jaina sighed.

This was going nowhere. 

 

She turned away. “At daybreak, then.” 

“Hold.” 

“What?” Venom leaked unbidden into her voice.

“How much of your mana have you recovered?” 

“Enough.” 

The Banshee stood then, and faced Jaina head-on. “Azshara will not have left her spellwork undefended — and you are in no condition to fight. Have you recovered your mana?” 

Jaina bit back the uncouth things boiling to the surface of her mind. “Most of it. By far enough to compensate, if we need to move quickly. I’ve done far more with far lesser powers.” 

“Yes.” The Banshee crossed her arms as well, metal rasping on metal— “Some veterans of Hyjal _still_ refer to you as ‘Lady Frostfire.’”

Jaina couldn’t help but smirk. “That must annoy you.” 

The Banshee just glared. “How far is it to the first anchor?” 

“I’m not sure.” 

“All the more reason for to _rest_ , then.” 

And by anger or curiosity or just pure spite, Jaina blurted: “Can you? Rest?” 

Red eyes blazed brighter. 

“It’s just that I’d feel simply _awful_ to know I’ve been depriving you of your beauty sleep.” 

“My—” The Banshee’s fangs _clicked_ together as she snapped them shut, _literally_ biting back whatever it was she’d almost said.

 

“Fine,” She growled. 

 

“Fine?”

  

“You want to know what makes me _tick?_ ” She un-crossed her arms and let them fall to her sides, gauntleted hands half-clenched into claws— “You want to know why I don’t match any of the _patterns_ you’ve spent your life _obsessed_ with?” 

“That’s not—” Jaina cut herself off. She didn’t owe any explanation to— 

“Why do you think I look like this, Proudmoore?” 

What?

“To--” Jaina faltered. 

To unnerve the living? Any given undead already did that. 

To lull them into a false sense of familiarity? Not with those burning eyes, those anguished tear-streaks-- 

And Jaina realized:

 

“...I don’t know.” 

 

The Banshee blinked.

(Since when did the undead blink?)

 

“Arthas preserved my body as _incentive.”_

 

Oh.

 

“So that I would stop resisting his will... and for it he could _reward_ me with this— this _mockery_ of life.” 

She may as well have seized Jaina’s heart in one gauntleted hand. 

There were no words… save for the Banshee’s furious, faux-sweet whisper of: 

 

“Rest well, Lord Admiral.” 

 

Then she brushed past and stalked off down the outcropping, leaving Jaina alone beneath the watchful moons. 

 

 

*******

 

Had she known that little half-truth would shut Proudmoore up so well, Sylvanas would have deployed it days ago. 

Gone were the probing questions, the contrarianism, the constant, pathological search for deception, for motive… 

Well into the next day, they walked in silence.

Slowly.

She had half a mind to just throw the infuriating woman over her shoulder -- but that would, of course, probably drive those broken ribs right into a lung. 

 

 _Belore,_ the living were fragile. 

 

Though… companion of Arthas, then ruler of Theramore, then leader of the Kirin Tor, now Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras… 

Sylvanas doubted Proudmoore had ever gone this long with such an injury unhealed. Always, she would have had a priest or paladin close by to bless it away.

So perhaps it was… _advantageous,_ for Proudmoore to be so exposed to her own fragility. 

 

It would lend itself to appreciation when she joined Sylvanas in undeath. 

 

The Val’kyr could tell when a soul was willing… and whether by the magic that tethered them to her or simply the cumulative effect of witnessing scores of rebirths, Sylvanas had acquired a sense for it as well. 

It took more than death to defeat people like Jaina Proudmoore. 

 

...but how _should_ she go about delivering that death? As thrilling as it would be to face the Archmage head on, it would also be a risk she couldn’t justify. Not with everyone depending on her. 

That much had been true even _before_ Proudmoore got this opportunity to observe her. 

To _study_ her.  

Besides, if she was to foster in Proudmoore a loyalty to the Forsaken, to _her…_ the Lord Admiral’s death would have to be perfect.  

A betrayal, perhaps -- Kul Tirans still seeking vengeance for Proudmoore’s father, driven to extremes by her sudden ascent to leadership, wartime rationing… 

Yes. 

That could be arranged. 

As for her rebirth… Sylvanas would call on all three of the remaining Val’kyr. She would enlist only the most skilled of her apothecaries. The mage’s soul would be bound to a phylactery, and that phylactery would be sealed in a titansteel urn, warded by the most powerful sorcerers of the Horde, and hidden away where no one would ever find it… 

 

Just like Sylvanas’ own. 

 

And when she awoke in the peace and comfort Sylvanas had been denied, immortal, surrounded by family that would never reject her, never betray her… 

Who would dare stand against them then?

 

“Can you still sense the cardinal directions?”

 

Sylvanas glanced over. Proudmoore walked a pace ahead, arm flexing as she balanced her staff over one shoulder, a haze of frost shimmering around her.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I’m not trying to pry,” Proudmoore said, not stopping. “I’ve just been using magic to keep my staff pulling South. It’s not difficult, it’s just a steady drip of mana I could be saving for whatever awaits us at the anchor. So I was wondering if your innate sense of direction survived… everything.” 

 

Several ways to answer that flitted through Sylvanas’ mind, each crueler than the last.

She dismissed them. 

 

Proudmoore was curious about her. 

Proudmoore was _attracted_ to her. 

Proudmoore cared enough to be horrified by what she’d been through. 

 

It was time to do something with that.

 

Sylvanas fell into step beside her, and wordlessly offered her a compass. 

 

“Oh.” Proudmoore blinked. Magic shone in her eyes, though not as coldly bright as when she was enraged. “...Thank you.” 

 

Sylvanas said nothing. Best not to come on too strong. 

 

*******

 

Jaina did her best to keep her furtive glances to a minimum. The Banshee’s armor helped -- as did the terrain. There were no paths here, just miles of mud to suck at her boots, roots to trip on, undergrowth to hide them… 

Even wreathed in frost, it was draining. 

For two days they walked, only stopping so Jaina could sleep and eat. Up and down root-gnarled slopes, through thickets choked with vines and rotting logs, finding winding paths between trees the size of towers, making detours to streams she never could have found without the Banshee’s ears… 

And for two days, they barely spoke. 

_‘We’ll rest here,’ ‘Eat,’ ‘Drink,’ ‘Get up,’ ‘Watch your step,’..._

 

If the Banshee felt anything about revealing what she had, it didn’t show -- and Jaina couldn’t help but wonder: how strong _was_ the bond between spirit and corpse? Rage provoked involuntary reactions, that much she’d seen… but at all other times her face was as inexpressive as a literal mask. Only the subtle movements of her ears and the waxing and waning of her eyes betrayed anything at all -- and now even those told her nothing. The Banshee’s ears were attuned to the wilderness around them, and she barely looked at Jaina. 

How much was indifference? 

How much was an act?

How could she get the Banshee to tell her _more?_

 

Thus the furtive glances -- and with each one, a throb in her chest. 

That regal, handsome beauty… 

 

_A mockery of life._

 

A week ago Jaina would have said _Yes. That is what you are._

Four days ago she’d spat the word _abomination_ without a second thought. 

Now she just wanted to rest. 

And maybe to scream, just a little bit. 

And yes, part of her still whispered _liar, liar,_ still insisted that the Banshee had only said what she did to make Jaina feel for her... 

And it didn’t _matter._

Lie or not, it had worked. 

She could no longer believe this was a monster, walking beside her. 

 

A threat, yes. The enemy, yes. 

 

But above all a tragedy.

 

A dark mirror… from which she could not look away. 

 

“Do you know many death knights, Proudmoore?" 

 

Jaina blinked. Looked up. 

 

The Banshee only nodded to the jungle before them… which was jungle no longer. 

A stone’s throw ahead, the muddy earth sloped down into the murky-green waters of a mangrove swamp. 

 

Oh. 

 

Path of frost.

She frowned. 

 

“That… seems a waste of mana. Do you think it’s necessary?”

 

“I think you should prepare for it to be necessary.” The Banshee un-slung the vertebrae-adorned bow from her back and stared unblinking at the water. 

 

Probably thinking of Nazmir. 

 

Jaina followed her gaze. 

The mangroves grew in islands, dense clusters of thin roots reaching out from the straight trunks like hundreds of legs… and between those clusters was a lane of still water, winding off into the distance. 

The sun was dipping low. Growing dim. 

 

“Perhaps…” Jaina wet her lips. “Perhaps we should make camp further from the water.” 

 

“Why? Anything hunting us will just slither the extra mile. Cast something here. A trap.” 

 

Jaina almost thought she was hallucinating, to not hear mockery in the Banshee’s voice. 

For _without_ the mockery, it almost sounded like _Sylvanas’_ voice. 

Which was the last thing she needed right now. 

So she pushed it aside, and with the end of her staff etched a trigram in the mud at water’s edge. It glowed in time with her incantation, and then faded as she stepped away. 

“That will skewer anything that passes near it, and freeze the surrounding water.” She glanced at the Banshee. “Bet you we’ll be knee deep in Naga guts before this is over.”

That got her attention. Attracted her burning gaze. 

_Finally._

“And with what shall we wager?” Said the Banshee. “Territories? Chests of Azerite?” 

“Answers.” Jaina smirked. “Obviously.” 

The Banshee’s dark lips twitched. “Ah. I should have known.” 

Jaina turned to find a good spot to rest -- and paused. 

That… seemed an awful lot like… 

No. 

_Don’t be a fool, Jaina._

“I’m going to forage,” Said the Banshee. “Don’t do anything--” 

“Foolish.” Jaina crossed her arms. Glared a challenge. “Right.” 

 

The Banshee’s eyes flicked down -- and Jaina was abruptly _very_ aware of how _thin_ her undershirt was. 

But before she could even flush, the Warchief was walking off into the trees. 

Jaina closed her eyes. Took a deep breath, and held it for an eight-count. Let it out slowly. 

 

It didn’t mean anything. 

A glance was nothing. It didn’t mean… 

_Tides what the fuck are you doing Jaina_

It didn’t mean _lust._ Jaina’s heartbeat could have drawn her eye just as easily as… 

As her barely-covered nipples. 

Fuck. 

 

*****

 

Jaina walked atop the water, boots crunching on the frost crystallizing beneath them. 

The Banshee waded next to her, waist-deep. 

 

 _To feel if anything approaches,_ she’d said. 

 

Which… Jaina was no necromancer, but why would something’s life-force be more detectable through water than through air? No -- the Banshee must have enough feeling in her skin to sense the movements of the water around her.

 

 _This_ **_mockery_ ** _of life._

 

Jaina chewed the inside of her cheek. 

It didn’t fit. 

Those nerve endings didn’t survive long, after death. Why would Arthas bother preserving such things, if he intended the Banshee’s body to be a new torture disguised as a reward?

No.

The Dark Lady must have restored such functions herself, afterward. 

So either she had lied about that… or she’d only deigned to tell Jaina what she knew would _hurt._

And Jaina was more angry at herself for _falling for it_ than at the Banshee for doing it. 

Perhaps all the hostility of this past week had numbed her… but honestly? 

She doubted anyone could survive fifteen years of war _without_ gaining an appreciation for weaponscraft… and as weapons went, that little white lie was the verbal equivalent of a perfectly-aimed arrow. 

But even the most skilled shot could betray the archer’s position -- and it had. 

 

The Banshee knew Jaina cared. 

 

This was such a fucking-- 

 

“Stop.”

 

She did -- in no small part due to the Banshee’s metal-sheathed fingers flashing up to block her path. 

“What is--” 

_“Quiet.”_

 

Jaina swallowed her indignation, and without looking away from the water focused mana into her feet. With a cold glow, the crust of ice beneath them grew out across the surface and down below it, sending roots of frost deep into the mud. 

The water remained still. 

The Banshee nocked an arrow. 

Her ears pointed straight up. 

Jaina’s heart thudded hard against her ribs. She took a slow, deep breath, and wrapped her free hand around her staff. 

 

“When I leap from the water,” Said the Banshee, “Freeze--” 

 

She was too busy firing to finish that sentence -- and the moment she let fly, her arrow burst into black flames, hissing into the water and exploding beneath in a riot of sickly green and purple. 

Dark blood bloomed out across the surface, chunks of meat-- 

 

The Banshee spun, firing once, twice into the water-- 

_“Behind you!”_

Jaina threw out a shield -- and turned in time to see a fully-grown crocolisk bounce off of it and dive back into the water. 

Several more slithered through the churning murk.

Next to her, the Banshee leapt straight up, dodging a snapping maw by inches-- 

 

Jaina let loose. 

 

In a single, bright instant, the swamp around them was frozen solid -- water, wildlife and all. Ice sparkled on roots, trunks, leaves… and the half-dozen crocolisks now mounted on frigid spikes. Their bodies cracked from within, and shards of frozen viscera tumbled onto the glacial rode on which Jaina and the Banshee now stood. 

 

“What happened to not wasting mana, Proudmoore?”

 

Jaina closed her eyes. Why did she have to say the name like an _insult_ every time? 

 

“Just following orders, Banshee.”

 

“Ah. My apologies -- I should have specified the _surrounding_ water, rather than _all of it.”_

 

Jaina glared over. The Banshee re-slung her bow, face once more an impassive mask. 

 

“Don’t worry.” Jaina feigned nonchalance. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from. Or have you forgotten Zuldazar so soon?”

 

Bow in place, she glanced over. Looked Jaina over dispassionately, which _shouldn’t have been thrilling--_

 

“Have _you?”_

 

_Thump-thump_

 

_Of course not._

“How could I _possibly_ _forget--_ ” Her hands shook, but her voice was icy-- “When I’m trapped here with the _architect_ of the whole fucking mess?” 

Only the faintest swelling of those crimson eyes betrayed any feeling at all -- and _what_ feeling, Jaina could only--

 

“Imagine _being_ that architect.” 

 

And Jaina’s fury stuttered out like a candle in the wind. 

She--?

 

“The compass, if you please.” 

 

Right -- Jaina fished it from her pocket, tossed it into the Banshee’s waiting hand--

And stared as the Banshee’ used it to find South, and started walking. 

_Liar she’s a **liar** _

For what had the Banshee ever _done_ to suggest she could still feel guilt? And even if she _could,_ why admit it? Why to _her?_

 

Tides fucking damn it. 

 

Were it not for the crocolisks, the panther and snake, the memory of Azshara’s magic in the storm and N’zoth’s abyssal voice drowning out her every thought-- 

If not for it all, she would have turned the Banshee into a icicle pincushion then and there. 

 

“Need a break, Proudmoore?” 

 

_Only from you._

 

Jaina clenched her teeth, gripped her staff, and started walking. 

She wished she had fangs to bare.

 

*

 

Just as sunset was again growing near, Jaina heard waves -- and couldn’t help but sigh in relief. 

She didn’t need to be an elf to feel the magic of the sea, cool and vital, lapping at her over-stressed nerves… 

 

And up the slight, muddy slope ahead, the Banshee halted. 

 

Jaina blinked forward to her side. “What is--”

 

Oh. 

Not three yards before them, all but consumed by the mud and roots and ferns and moss, was a slab of grey stone, marked with faint concentric rings. 

The Banshee started up the slope again -- a few long strides bore her to the top, and there she paused again, between two gnarled trees, dark and drab against the pinks and blues of the sunset sky. 

And again, Jaina blinked forward to see… 

 

Ruins. 

Trollish, most likely -- the eroded crowns of once-great pyramids, now sunken apex-deep into the the soft coastal earth and casting long shadows over the still water. The last of the marsh trees grew in clusters atop the buildings, roots snaking over the ancient walls and between the bricks, into darkened doorways… 

And rising from the murk at the center of the ruins like the domed, opalescent shell of some great, spiky crustacean, was a Naga shrine. Were it not for the vaulted doorway, Jaina would have been preparing her most devastating spells. 

 

As it was, she was standing ready. 

 

_Too many places to hide. To lie in wait…_

 

The Banshee turned away from it. “Teleport us back to the edge of the marsh.” 

“What?” Jaina glanced down to plant her foot without slipping as she turned. “Why? The anchor is right here.” 

“Yes. And undoubtedly guarded by any manner of foul creatures and spells. We will approach it once you’ve rested.” 

Jaina scowled. “If I put something as important as this here, I would either have spells or sentries watching the surrounding area. We’re well within range of one or both. We need to act _now.”_

“Don’t be a fool, Proudmoore.” 

 

 **_Stop_ ** _saying my name like that--_

 

“You’ve been walking all day.” The Banshee stepped past her, down the slope. “If only we had a mirror, that you might see yourself and understand my judgement.” 

“I’m _fine,_ Banshee.” 

She stopped at the foot of the slope, just at the edge of the water. Jaina saw one gauntleted hand clench into a fist… and spite rushed hot through her veins. 

“My mana is nearly replenished,” Jaina hissed, wary of vigilant ears-- “I don’t need to be able to do _backflips_ to investigate a fucking _spell-anchor.”_

“I don’t _care_ how _confident_ you are, Proudmoore.” The Banshee didn’t turn, didn’t move-- “This is _Queen Azshara._ One wrong step, one second too slow because your fragile body is _sore,_ and you’ll be _dead.”_

 

\--Wait, _you?_ Not _we?_

 

“I don’t care how much mana you have. You will _rest_ before we do this.”

“I was _tired_ when those beasts attacked us,” Jaina marched down the slope, keeping her voice low-- “We were _surrounded_ \-- can you honestly you would have gotten out of that unscathed if I was off _sleeping_ somewhere?”

“Had I been injured,” Said the Banshee, “I would have _repaired_ myself.” 

And Jaina was too bothered to even be disgusted by that. “And I would have been an easy target while you fought!”

“You would be an easy target dragging yourself--” 

 _“And_ there could be any number of beasts out here, any number of Naga-- how can you honestly expect me to _sleep?”_

 

The Banshee’s ears twitched.

 

“Or have you _forgotten,”_ Jaina spat, “What adrenaline feels like?” 

 

The Banshee’s other hand closed into a fist… and unnatural shadows formed on her, around her, deepening-- 

But she said nothing, and Jaina was not letting such an opening pass--

 

“I was _exhausted_ when I lured your champions out of Zuldazar, and I  _still_ slew  half of them. Come to think of it, did you _order_ them to pursue me? For such an _experienced_ general, you seem bent on underestimating the enemy, _Ban--”_

 

 _“That is_ **_NOT MY NAME!”_ **

The Banshee spun toward her, teeth bared, eyes _blazing,_ claws half-raised with violent intent--

 

And Jaina’s ears _ached_ at from her roar.

 

The Pacts magic surged out of the scar on Jaina’s palm, and the Banshee’s right hand jerked in answer, violet light flashing between them like lighting--

The Banshee fell to her knees, lovely face twisted in pain and rage, eyes casting bloody light across her cheekbones, her brows, the ground before her…

 

Jaina was shaking, and it had nothing to do with magic. 

 

Her words came rough and raw:

“Then what _is?”_

 

The Banshee looked up at her, brows furrowed-- 

“Because _you--”_ Jaina’s voice cracked. “You are **_not_** Sylvanas Windrunner.” 

And the Banshee Queen stared, eyes dimming. “I’m… _what?”_

“Sylvanas Windrunner,” Jaina forced out, “Would never slaughter other elves unprovoked. She would never use a weapon like the Blight, let alone against her _own soldiers,_ she -- she would never drag an unaffiliated nation into her--” 

 

The Banshee burst into laughter.

Jaina’s words died on her tongue. 

 

It wasn’t the Ranger-General’s laugh. It wasn’t like _any_ laugh Jaina had ever heard -- the right notes were there, high and melodic, but that guttural rasp, the unnatural stuttering shake of her body, and-- 

And then she snorted. 

Clapped a gauntleted hand over her mouth. 

Slowly, the laughter waned, the Warchief’s pauldrons still shaking with the occasional spasm--

And those hellish embers opened once more. 

 

“Sweet girl…” That fucking _lilt_ was back, sweet and venomous-- “You think you _knew_ Sylvanas Windrunner?”

 

Jaina was still reeling, unable do parse what just happened, unable to do anything but watch as the Banshee rose back to her full height and looked down with that sickening _smirk--_

“I have walked this world for _six hundred years.”_ She stepped forward, no more than an arms length between them-- “I have made choices that would _break_ you. One night of polite conversation, and you think you _know me?”_

“You--” Jaina’s mouth was dry. “ _Sylvanas_ rescued me from Kael’thas. She was a perfect gentlewoman.”

“I’m no scholar..." The Banshee’s smirk grew into a grin, baring her fangs. “But that _seems_ like an insufficient sample size. You knew _nothing_ of my motives -- who’s to say I wasn’t buttering you up to _devour?”_

A shiver ghosted over Jaina’s traitorous skin. “No. I knew your rep-- _her_ reputation, she was a hero, she would never--”

“A hero…” The Banshee practically spat the word, still grinning-- “Yes. They did sing my praises, didn’t they? A pity the war started before I got a chance to make _you_ sing them too." 

Blood rushed hot to Jaina’s cheeks. “You--!”

“Such histories oft omit the ugly details. You must know that, _Lord Admiral._ You’re too _clever_ not to. If the people of Quel’thalas ever learned the things I did to protect them from the Amani, their civic pride would not have survived. Such is war.” 

Her eyes narrowed then, her ears angling forward toward Jaina-- 

 

“I am Sylvanas Windrunner in her truest form -- all the dead weight cut away.” 

 

Jaina’s eyes burned with unshed tears. “What reason do I have to believe that? _Any_ of that?” 

Sylv-- _the Banshee_ just stared down at her, that ardent gaze… 

“The Jaina Proudmoore I met that night at the ball… would she ever have tried to drown a city of innocents?” 

Jaina’s heart ached. 

“Would she ever have repainted Dalaran with the blood of fellow mages?” 

Her cheeks were wet. 

“Would she ever have done what you did to Zuldazar? To its king? Its _princess?”_ The Banshee’s eyes flared bright, her grin manic-- 

Jaina glared up at her through tears. 

“Is this all that is left of you?” She cried. “This vindictiveness, this rage and  _hatred_ and-- and--”

A sob spilled from her lips. Her cheeks burned to be seen like this. 

Why did it all have to overflow _now?_

She blinked against the tears-- and when she opened her eyes, that triumphant grin was gone. 

The Banshee’s ears were askew, her head tilted ever-so-slightly… 

And her voice soft. 

“Is that what you believe?” 

Just like during the thunderstorm. 

_I don't know what to believe anymore_

“Yes,” Jaina choked out. 

The Dark Lady looked deep into her eyes, lips pursing... 

“No.” 

And took a step towards her. 

“You can’t, can you?”

Jaina’s eyes fluttered shut, her mind a mess of frustration and shame and-- 

 

“You asked what it would take for me to consider peace.” 

 

...What?

 

Jaina opened her eyes once more. 

The Banshee’s face betrayed nothing. 

“Yes,” She forced her voice to be cold, to be hard, “And you mocked me for it.” 

“Have you never been interrogated?” She tilted her head the other way, like some curious beast-- “It doesn’t exactly inspire courtesy.”

“I was _hardly--”_ Jaina cut herself off. “What are you on about? What _point_ are you trying to make?” 

_To stab me with?_

The Banshee took another step -- and Jaina put one foot back, so as to strengthen her stance, and held her ground. 

 

“I will consider peace with the Alliance…” 

 

_????_

 

“...when _you_ are its Queen.” 

 

Jaina blinked. 

Opened her mouth. Closed it again. 

Blinked again. 

 

“... _What?”_

 

“Is that so hard to believe?” This was not her theatrical drawl, nor was it that soothing softness, it-- it was just _earnest._

 **_Sounds_ ** _earnest it only_ **_sounds_ ** _earnest Jaina--_

“Everything I’ve done,” Said the Banshee, “And when given the chance to kill me, you seek instead to understand. Everything you’ve been through, and still you _care._ All without tempering your wrath in the _slightest_ . You conquered the Undercity almost single-handedly. You tore through Zuldazar like a hurricane. You _fought_ a hurricane conjured by _Azshara._ And yet you lay the fate of your people in the hands of a _nineteen-year-old boy.”_

Her eyes were blazing again, by the end -- and Jaina's cheeks were burning. 

_“Why?”_

And Jaina-- 

It was all Jaina could do to just _absorb_ that, let alone _respond._

Where was this _coming from?_

“I don’t know-- what game you’re playing, but--” 

 

The Banshee took another step, into Jaina’s space -- and Jaina tried to stand her ground, she _did--_

 

But the _hunger_ was back in the Dark Lady’s eyes. 

 

Another step, and Jaina was stepping back to keep that space between them, keep those teeth away from her naked neck-- 

 

“But it won’t work,” She stammered. 

 

Another step. 

Another.

 

Jaina’s back hit tree-bark. 

 

The Banshee stood over her, eyes blazing, dark lips parted inches away-- 

 

“Jaina…” Her gaze burned over Jaina’s body, voice low and raspy--  _“Look_ at you.”

Her tongue traced the tips of a fang, and Jaina _cursed_ the pulse of heat in her belly, the stuttering of her breath-- 

 _"_ It _already has.”_

 

 And then those dark lips claimed her own. 

 

Cool.

Full.

Soft. 

Firm. 

Every spiteful taunt, every rebuke, every frustration vanished before her shock. 

Jaina saw the Banshee’s eyes flutter shut, felt the cold steel of the Banshee’s claws brushing softly over her flushed cheek-- 

And she froze. 

For it it had been so _long_ since she’d been kissed like this, touched like this—

And the Banshee— 

The Dark Lady--

_Sylvanas--_

She didn’t feel like a corpse. 

The give and take of her lips, the gentle caution of her touch, she...  

 

She felt like a woman coming in from the cold. 

 

Perhaps that was why Jaina kissed back.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a fucking sip, babes
> 
> Also! I made a new tumblr just for WoW fanfic/fanart etc -- https://jaina-pridemore.tumblr.com/  
> Feel free to come rant at me about gay shit


	13. Ravenous

 

 

Every _thump_ of Proudmoore’s heart sent a shudder through Sylvanas’ soul. Her intoxicating warmth passed right through Sylvanas’ armor, chasing the numbing cold from her skin and muscles and bones-- 

And then Proudmoore’s lips parted, and moved against Sylvanas’ own.

Sensation _bloomed_ across her long-dead tongue -- the crisp salt of tears, the subtle spice of her sweat, the sharp tang of the arcane-- 

Victory never tasted so--

So-- 

So _much._

It was bliss. 

It was  _life._

And it was all Sylvanas could do not to seize her by the back of the neck and deepen the kiss, not to bite and _drink--_

She may not have thought this all the way through. 

But in her defense it had been over a decade since she’d seduced anyone, and the moment was _perfect --_ Proudmoore’s insane _compassion_ overflowing from her eyes and her lips, her face and neck and chest flushing so prettily at Sylvanas’ praise… 

And now she was _kissing back --_ surrendering to empathy and lust.  Surrendering to _her._

Sylvanas couldn’t contain her smile. Nor could she stop herself from gripping Proudmoore’s waist--

And Proudmoore _moaned._

 

Then she stiffened -- and blasted Sylvanas across the clearing. 

 

She tumbled head over heels across the muddy earth, shoved herself into the air and flipped once--

Twice--

Thrice-- 

And landed on her feet. 

Proudmoore stared at her, wide-eyed, heart like a war drum. Her chest heaved as she panted, breasts that would fit perfectly in Sylvanas’ hands pressing against thin cotton, nipples hard-- 

And for the first time in a lifetime, Sylvanas noticed a faint, warm _ache_ in the cradle of her hips. 

She needed _more._

She forced herself to grin. “What... no _ice_ this time?” 

Proudmoore’s eyes were still wide and wet, her knuckles white on her staff-- “Don’t tempt me.” 

“Go ahead.” Sylvanas straightened up, planted her hands on her hips-- “Freeze me solid.”

Once again she raked her eyes over Proudmoore’s body just to see her shiver--

“Pretend I can’t see that pretty flush.”

She took a step forward -- and Proudmoore flinched, mana glowing bright in her free hand-- 

“Pretend I can’t hear your heart _pounding._ ”

Another step.

“Pretend you didn’t _melt_ in my hands.” 

The shock and confusion on Proudmoore’s face twisted into cold fury, and violet light flared in her eyes-- 

And her palm--

And all around her. 

Her power seized Sylvanas like a doll and slammed her into the nearest tree. 

Pinned her there. 

 _Trapped_ her there.  

 

*******

 

The Banshee’s smile vanished. She struggled in vain, arcane energy flowing over her in a relentless tide, such that her armor creaked and the tree bark cracked behind her. 

A power play. 

A _fucking power play._

Jaina shook with rage. 

Two could play at that game. 

She blinked forward, seized the Banshee’s jaw, and kissed her. Hard. She pulled the Banshee’s mouth open, and swirled her tongue over slowly warming lips, shielding herself so the Banshee couldn’t drain her, could do _nothing_ but-- 

_Bite._

She jolted back, coppery blood spilling from her bottom lip-- and staining the Banshee’s fangs as she _snarled,_ heaving against her bonds, black mist pouring out of her armor, blazing eyes wide and unfocused--

She looked--  _panicked._ Kicking and writhing, flinging her head from side to side and frantically muttering:

 _“No no no no nono_ **_noNO--”_ **

 

Oh Gods. 

 

**_“RELEASE ME!”_ **

 

Her broken roar stabbed at Jaina’s ears, and once more the Pact-scars flared-- Sylvanas spasmed, neck and jaw snapping taught, staring blankly--

Jaina let go, stepped back--

And the Banshee burst free. 

Transparent tendrils lashed the air, smoke billowed around her, lit from within by the overflowing red of her eyes-- 

And all around her, she plants shriveled and died -- moss, ferns, trees-- 

Jaina strengthened her shield -- and the Banshee’s horrid gaze snapped toward the flare of power.

She _slammed_ onto the ground in a crouch, clawed gauntlets cutting furrows in the earth, dark lips pulled back so far Jaina could see her own blood smeared on grey gums-- 

Cold fear seized Jaina's heart. 

 

*******

 

_There’s no blade there’s no blade there’s no blade there’s no blade--_

It didn’t matter. 

She could _feel_ it, lodged in her chest, sharp and searing cold, tearing her out of her body and _twisting_ her, _binding_ her-- 

 _He’s gone he’s gone he’s_ **_gone--_ **

And Proudmoore was speaking, but her voice was so distant, so faint, so-- 

 

“Sylvanas? 

 

So _broken._

She grit her teeth until they cracked, just enough to send real, glorious _pain_ shooting through her jaw and focused on it with everything she had, pulling herself slowly but surely into her body, into her _eyes--_

_There._

Proudmoore stood before her empty-handed, staff hovering behind her-- 

Gone was the rage, the disgust, the hatred.

Her expression was unguarded, and her eyes-- 

 _\--like a stormy sea_ \--

 They were wide -- but not with _fear,_ what was… 

“Sylvanas, I am _so sorry--_ ” 

She was crying, why--? 

“Sylvanas, listen to me.”

\--when had someone last looked at her like this?--

“You’re no longer bound to his will -- to _anyone’s_ will but your own.” 

 _Yes he is he left his mark he left this_ **_pain--_ **

“You _survived_ him.” 

 _I_ **_know that_ ** _it just--_

_I can still--_

_Still--_

 

“You’re **_free.”_ **

 

**_Free._ **

Yes. 

Belore if could just **_breathe--_ **

Proudmoore’s gaze was searching, roaming over her face what was she _looking at--_

“...Sylvanas?”

It was too late. 

She writhed through the channels of her body, unable to calm, unable to stop the wail building in what was left of her lungs, her throat, her heart-- 

So instead she leapt into the trees, withering everything she touched, and flew away as fast as she could. 

 

*******

 

Jaina couldn’t stop shaking.  

The tears had stopped. 

She fell to her knees. 

_You know nothing of what Arthas did to me._

Except that wasn’t true, was it? Not anymore. 

She knew some of it. 

Not much… but enough to be _horrified_ by what she had done. 

Enough to be disgusted with herself. 

Enough for the tears to spill over yet again.

 _No no no no nono_ **_noNO_ **

Fuck. 

She wiped at her cheeks. 

How _could_ she? 

A horrible shriek echoed through the distant jungle, chasing birds from their roosts… 

But even so far away, Jaina could hear the pain in it. The anguish. The fury. 

How could she not have _realized?_

She’d just been so _angry --_ the sweet, unexpected relief of having her accomplishments recognized like that, of being _praised_ like that for the first time in years, the part of her soul that ached for a woman’s touch suddenly nourished, only to realize it was just another **_ploy_ ** _\--_

Something in her had just… cracked open -- and through that breach poured a hunger as dark and ravenous as the Banshee’s own. 

She’d wanted to crush her. To make her _kneel._

And now… 

Jaina’s breath shuddered out.

Of everything that had passed between them, hissed or spat or shouted… 

This was the cruelest.

 

_Unforgivable._

 

For a long moment, she stared at her hands, callused and dirty… but devoid of all the blood they’d spilled. 

She didn’t deserve it. Her hands should be _stained_ with it, for all to see-- 

_Stop it, Jaina. This is neither the place nor the time to--_

_To--_

She screwed her eyes shut, and took a deep breath. 

Then she looked up. 

The tree she’d pinned Sylvanas to was withered and grey, bending under its own weight. All around, the undergrowth had shriveled into anemic husks. 

She looked back, into the marsh. 

Leagues behind lay the jungle, and somewhere within it… 

Fuck. 

She had finally truly hurt the--

...the Dark Lady.

She had _finally_ scored a real blow -- and it felt _awful._

Something fluttered through the air overhead, and Jaina nearly leapt out of her skin.

A bird. Just a bird. 

Right.

 _She_ wasn’t here to scare off the wildlife. 

Jaina went very still. 

Just like the water all around her. 

It grew darker every minute. 

 

She couldn’t stay here.

 

The hill was surrounded by water on all sides. The edge of the swamp wouldn’t much better. 

And the Dark Lady… would she come back? 

They were still tethered by the Pact -- which thus far had been triggered by Jaina’s pain, her hunger… and her anxiety and fear. 

So all she had to do to summon Her was feel endangered. 

And then she could… what?  _A_ _pologize?_ No words could make this right. 

But… perhaps an absence of words could. 

The two of them… they didn’t have conversations. They had _battles._ It exploded in Jaina’s face every time. 

Alright. She would stop bothering her. No more questions, no more taunts no matter how vicious the Ban... how vicious  _She_ got. 

And maybe, just maybe, she could figure out something to  _do_ for Her that wouldn't tip the scales of the war. 

Maybe. 

So with a pained grunt, Jaina climbed to her feet, and walked toward the ruins. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me X( 
> 
> More in a week or so. If you're thirsty for my writing (and bisexual) check out Frostfire. 
> 
> I made a new tumblr for fanfic / general gay buffoonery: https://jaina-pridemore.tumblr.com/


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